The Tides Of Vulcan
by Baroness Emma
Summary: There is a tide in the affairs of Vulcans, which taken at the Fire, leads on to fortune.
1. Prologue

**A/N** - Apparently, every Trekkie fanwriter must attempt a Pon Farr story. . .

*shrugs* Okay. I'll give it a try. (^_^)

However. . . there will be nothing graphic, and I do not intend for this to go above a T rating. As always, there will be no slash.

Most Vulcan words were found at the Vulcan Language Dictionary Online - www. starbase-10. de/vld/ - but occasionally this database did not have the word or phrase I was looking for, so I either made one up, or cobbled two or three words together from the VLD to serve in place of any "official" words. These words and phrases are denoted in **bold** in the after-chapter glossaries.

All easily recognizable quotes, characters, settings and technical facts are not my property, and I do not profit from their use.

Enjoy!

* * *

**The Tides of Vulcan**

* * *

_"Omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound in darkness and in miseries. In such a great desert do we now set forth. And we must take the winds when they serve, or lose our ventures."_

- From "A Shakespeare Paraphrase" edited by Amanda Grayson

* * *

**Prologue**

Vulcan has no moon.

It is a simple fact, long established. No one questions it.

Vulcan _wants_ no moon.

Plainly stated, its few shallow oceans have only a small solar tide, its "months" are measured by stellar patterns and solar drift, its axial tilt is stabilized by the system's unusually large and stable complement of comets, and the biological cycles of its inhabitants are ruled, not by gravitational powers, but by an intricate balance of hormonal and mental imperatives that bind the males and females into an ancient ritualistic dance that incorporates physical and mental need so securely, that the flow of it may truly be said to have a tidal force. It is natural, elemental, and regular. It is also unstoppable.

Yet it is necessary - both men and women would die without it.

Vulcan _needs_ no moon. . .


	2. Chapter One

_"It is said that Vulcans can be kind. I must disagree. What is perceived by most as kindness is in fact knowledge. As a race Vulcans know what it took to extricate themselves from destruction. It may be, however, that the racial desire to inform and thus prevent other races from experiencing the same upheaval is not always entirely objective - thus I believe the term "nobility" comes into play. But, above all, when this behavior is displayed by one Vulcan singly, or many Vulcans as a group, let the observer be assured - it is logical."_

_- Excerpt from "The Nobility of Truth" by S'chn T'gai Spock, Prime, of New Vulcan_

* * *

**Chapter One**

"Are you certain this is the wisest thing to do, _adun_?"

"_Ashal-veh_, the decision has been made."

"Assuredly, it has, but is it the _wise_ decision?"

"I have meditated on little else for a full twenty days."

"I am aware of that. . ."

His mother's voice changed suddenly. It changed from a soft pleading to a crisp monotone. . . her _dangerous_ voice.

"And yet, I notice_ you have not answered my question, Sarek_."

Insofar as he could, his father sighed.

"I have decided it is the best choice for all concerned, _adun'a_."

"Does that include our son?"

"Seeing as he is one of the main figures in this decision, it would have been illogical to exclude his best interest from the equat-"

She interrupted, "And did you put his _emotions_ into this equation?"

His father's patience was clearly palpable.

"Emotions are _illogical_."

"Indeed they are - but what if they are _also in his best interest_? Doesn't he get to choose his own path in life?"

"Of course. A childhood bonding is not a life sentence, _ashal-veh_. You and I are a prime example - "

"You and I had the courage of our convictions and two extremely well established cultures to lean on. Spock has neither of these things at the present time."

"He is _my son_, Amanda," his father's voice began to sound very slightly hard, "This decision was made so that the Vulcan people would see he is of them, and not impaired by Human genetic - "

"He is _**OUR **_son, Sarek, and this decision was made so that you might broadcast the message "I come from a rich old family" to all of Vulcan, and for very little else - "

"A childhood betrothal is _traditional_, not caste-based as you insinuate, and _if_ your genetics have saved him from our curse - as I truly hope they have - then this bonding will at least give him the option of the logical path."

"And if they have not?"

"Then she will save his life."

"Will she?"

"It is her duty, as it is the duty of all women who - "

"Sarek, you do remember we are talking about T'Pring, daughter of T'Sai, High Priestess of Gol, right?"

"I cannot forget."

"Well, it's very difficult for me to believe that such a bonding is anything but the Vulcan way of bragging that you have old blood and lots and lots of money - have you _**met**_ the girl?"

His father gave a very short sigh, "You were present at two of the three meetings where she and I were also - "

"No, Sarek, not "have you met her". Listen to what I asked. Have you _**met **_her?"

"Yes."

"And you _still_ think she is a good match for our son?"

"She is the logical choice."

"No, she is_** a **_logical choice, and you have yet to convince me that it is the wisest one."

His father's voice now sounded tired, "What other choice is there to make at this late date, _ashal-veh_?"

"Do not betroth them."

Plain shock filled the air.

"I cannot go back on my word, Amanda, I am surprised you even suggest that I - "

"Oh _bond _them, of course - far be it from me to deprive a child of his right to childhood scars - but does it have to be a betrothal bond?"

"I am unsure of your meaning."

She made a very human sound of impatience, "It's plain enough, Sarek, what I mean. _Do not_ bond them in the traditional manner, _do not_ force our son to follow your culture instead of his own, _do not_ put that. . . computer disguised as a little girl. . . in his way just because you think it would be a good idea, _do not_ tie him up in a bond so hard to break it might kill him if it ever is, and _do not _assume that you're doing the _wise_ thing just because it might be _logical_."

She had spat that last word, as though getting rid of a foul taste, but now her voice softened considerably, "But _do_ consider that the vast majority of Vulcans do not betroth their children anymore, _do_ think about how Ambassador Sarek, son of T'Pau, scion of Surak, engaging in a full, ancient, _outdated_ betrothal ceremony for his son would be perceived by all those other Vulcans you seem so concerned about, and _do_ remember that a friendship bond is just as effective when it comes to mates and times and all the rest of it."

His father inhaled slowly, "I remember, _t'hy'la_."

"I should hope you do." There was a quiet rustle of fabric.

"Given that the ceremony is tomorrow, there is little that can now be changed," Sarek's voice was slightly muffled for some reason, "But I will consider your input, _ashayam_. . ."

"_Fully_ consider it, Sarek?"

"Mm, fully. . ." there was a very small. . . damp. . . noise, ". . . consider it."

"Go to bed, Sarek."

"I will wait for you, wife."

The soft sound of his father's footsteps retreated down the south hallway. Nine seconds later, his mother's head appeared in the doorway of the east hallway.

"Spock?"

"Yes, Ko'mekh?"

"Go to bed."

"Yes, Ko'mekh."

As he made his way back to his room - without the glass of water he had arisen to get - he wondered, and not for the first time, whether it was his father or his mother that was telepathic. . .

* * *

=/\=

* * *

_Adun_ - Husband

_Adun'a_ - Wife

_Ko'mekh_ - Mother

_Ashayam_ - Beloved

_Ashal-veh_ - Darling

_T'hy'la_ - Friend-for-life


	3. Chapter Two

_The phenomenon which I have often heard both Dr. McCoy's refer to as "Damn Vulcan Prudery", is, in fact, a recent development, when it comes to the whole of Vulcan culture. Contrary to the beliefs of the uninformed, there are many references to the necessities of marital relations in the works of Surak, and for many centuries it was seen as common - indeed necessary - to discuss private matters within the confines of one's own clan. It is true that Vulcans never were as blatantly forthcoming about private matters as Humanity seemed to be from the beginning, but it was not until Vulcan as a whole began to have regular contact with other races that our biological necessities began to be seen as shameful, for it was only then that we realized exactly how extreme they could be. It was not until First Contact with Terra that most of Vulcan culture realized how the Pon Farr would be perceived by most of the rest of the Galaxy, and it was mostly through our increasing friendship with Humanity that Vulcan began to notice how other races dealt with reproduction and marriage. It was then that Vulcan leaders as a whole decided to "close ranks" - as I understand the term. Whether this has been good for us or not is not for me to decide, but I can say with certainty that it is for the most part Humanity that Vulcan has to thank for finally being able to begin to see itself for what it is._

_- Excerpt from "A Double Life Twice Lived - a Memoir" by S'chn T'gai Spock, Prime, of New Vulcan_

* * *

**Chapter Two**

She knew, of course, that her distaste was illogical.

To engage in a permanent bond with a mate of one's parent's choosing, _that_ was logical, normal, and to an average Vulcan child, desirable. So much uncertainty and randomness was removed from the situation if the parents of the people involved did the initial choosing of mates. It had even been common, until a few generations ago, to fully betroth the children, and that had been logical too. To be sure that the male in question would always have a recourse - so that his own biology would neither kill him nor drive him insane - that was entirely reasonable. She did not know for sure why the practice had fallen out of favor - she would have to ask her mother. Even so, upwards of 98% of all marriages between Vulcans were still pre-arranged, with instilled _t'hy'la_ bonds at childhood, and the final marriage ceremony requiring only a slight shifting of the longstanding mental link.

It was logical - even children needed _t'hy'la_. Such bonds formed naturally, and a healthy Vulcan mind could support several of them at once, with any member of any species that was sensitive to psionic energy. This was unlike the full betrothal bond, which only rarely formed without instigation by a healer, and she had never heard of any mind being able to support more then one marriage bond at a time. Instilling _t'hy'la_ bonds into the minds of the two chosen children was no intrusion, but rather more often a great blessing. It meant the child would never be alone.

But she was T'Pring, daughter of T'Sai of the Reldai, the most sought after clan on Vulcan, and her betrothed would have to be either a princely scion of a High Clan, or a future member of the High Council.

_However, that is not what concerns me, I am sure of it._

No, it wasn't the thought of a high profile marriage, with the multitude of public duties that would ensue, or the less-than-private life that would follow which made her clench her hands and experience the tightening of muscles in her lower back that meant she was about to be extremely stubborn.

_It is the __**permanence **__of it._

She frowned a little at herself for emphasizing that word too much. There was emotion there. She must identify it, and then suppress it. She was not excited, nor was she disgusted. She was not angry. She could not be angry.

Was she afraid?

_I think, perhaps, I am._

But of what?

To be sure, she knew much more about what would be expected of her when her betrothed reached his Time than any child of eight years perhaps ought to know, but then, she was a child of the Reldai. At ascension, a priestess vowed to never complete the full marriage bond with anyone, leaving her mind open for the times when there were emergencies. Careless males, accidental deaths, unexpected separations, the extreme illness of a mate; all were reason enough to seek out help from the Reldai of Gol.

It would then be the Reldai's duty to form a special bond - temporary, but very strong - and then save the male's life. It was logical, it promoted diversity through combinations, and it preserved lives.

It was the way of Reldai - to be there in time of need, but always, in the end, to be free.

Children from these necessary unions were rare, but completely legitimate, and desired by all clans for their inherent qualities of _Kol-Ut-Shan_. According to law they could join their father's clan as soon as they came of age, or choose the crowded lonely life, the free bondage of Gol.

That choice had been hers, and a year ago she had chosen her mother's way. Even at eight she was considering undergoing _kolinahr_, the first step in becoming a full member of the Reldai.

To be assured the stability of a clan, without the **permanence** of a marriage bond. . .

There was that word again.

Why was she afraid of it?

She was not afraid of a male's Time, nor was she afraid of her own Time (a small grain of niggling doubt still remained over the latter, but she quickly dismissed it), she did not fear the boy she was going to be betrothed to, despite the fact that her mother had said he was half Human.

_How is that possible?_

She put the thought from her mind. It was irrelevant. Clearly it was possible. That was enough. He was half Human, and probably also a member of a High Clan - most likely from S'chn T'gai, of the House of Surak. Osu Sarek was the only Vulcan she had heard of that had married a Human. She had met him and his wife a few times of late. Did they have a son? They must have, if she was to be bonded to him today.

_Kaiidth_. Such a son would embody _Kol-Ut-Shan_ even more than she herself did. He would be acceptable.

But her fear did not abate. If it _was_ fear. . .

_Dakh pthak. Nam-tor ri ret na'fan-kitok fa tu dakh pthak_.

It did not matter if she was afraid, or what she was afraid of, she must control it.

She sat as she had been taught, and lighted her _asenoi_. She must waste no time at this - the ceremony would begin in a few hours.

She blew out the lighter-stick, watching the soft grey smoke curl upwards and disperse just below the varnished coffers in the beamed ceiling. Suddenly she seemed very small in her own eyes, and she shivered. She wondered at the patterns and tendencies of people. She was young, and yet she knew she wanted constant variety, and interesting work, company and entertainment.

She knew her weakness was boredom.

_Is that what I fear so much?_

What if her betrothed was dull, uninteresting, or so opposite to her that she couldn't find his company edifying? What if his humanity had made him vapid? What if this bonding was to be her prison?

Why had her mother chosen to betroth her, when so few parents did so for their children anymore, and to a half-Human unknown quantity, at that? Why had her mother chosen this path for her when T'Pring had made it so clear that she desired to be a Reldai?

_Enough._

There was not time for fear. She must cast it out.

She folded her hands, focused on the flame of her firepot, and began.

_Kaiidth - _

_It does not mean good._

_Kaiidth - _

_It does not mean evil._

_Kaiidth - _

_It does not mean change._

_Kaiidth -_

_It does not mean constancy._

_Kaiidth - _

_It does not mean stay._

_Kaiidth - _

_It does not mean depart._

_Kaiidth - _

_It does not mean wrong._

_Kaiidth - _

_It does not mean right._

_Kaiidth - _

_It means what it means._

_What is._

_Is._

_Be content._

After this, she rose and prepared for the journey to the _Koon-ut Reldai. _It would not be a long process. There were clean clothes already laid out, and she was more than used to arranging her hair properly.

She was not in a hurry. She was calm. She was unafraid.

But after the ceremony, she wondered if any of that were truly so.

_How could time have gone so quickly?_

The ceremony had been several unexpected experiences - one right after the other.

Osu S'chn T'gai Sarek did not intend to betroth her to his son. Had apparently never intended to do so. He had stood there, looking tall even in the midst of the circle of standing stones, and speaking only to her mother. He offered his son as _t'hy'la_ to her daughter. Her mother had agreed - had she hesitated before she had agreed? - and leaned forward to form the bond in their minds. Her mother had touched her face, and the face of Osu Sarek's son, and performed the short ritual.

She, T'Pring, would stay free, but with the expectation that she would use the bond, strengthen it and explore it before the Time when it would be needed. She had been bonded to Osu Sarek's son in the _modern_ way. As far as she was capable, she felt relief.

It was short-lived.

Her first touch to the boy's mind had been. . . everything at once. He was Vulcan, yes, but he felt so different, so. . . interesting. If he was half Human, then Humans were anything but dull. He was acceptable.

But his first touch to her mind had been. . . an open flame dropped into a bowl of oil. She was a girl and he did not want her. She would keep her mind to herself. She would never touch him again.

She had gasped, and had almost broken down under the weight of his emotions. Tears pricked their unfamiliar sensation in her eyes, her stomach rolled in a way she knew meant illness, her feet and knees were suddenly weak.

_You think you are the only one who is angry that they do not have a choice?_

It was the one and only thing he had said to her directly. Then his mental walls came up, and she was slammed out of his mind.

_I am not angry. It would be illogical to be angry. _She projected at him, desperate to try and repair the breach. _It is our way, you must let me try to. . . _He pushed again, his mental shielding far stronger than one might expect for a boy of not-yet-seven.

_T'hy'la!_

She received nothing from his mind, except a vague but very powerful impression of _No_.

Her mother and his father had stood there, quite helpless, and as shocked as Vulcans could be. They all left the _Koon-ut_, quickly.

The bond remained in place, but he was not her _t'hy'la_.

As she took down the elaborate plaits in her hair that night, she realized she did not even know his name.

* * *

=/\=

* * *

_Asenoi _- Meditation firepot.

_Kol-Ut-Shan _- The concept of IDIC - Infinite Combinations in Infinite Diversity

_Osu_ - Sir; Male honorific

_Koon-ut_ - Place of marriage, usually surrounded by standing stones, and always with an altar and gong in the center.

_Dakh pthak. Nam-tor ri ret na'fan-kitok fa tu dakh pthak_. - "Cast out fear. There is no room for anything else until you cast out fear." (Analect of Surak)

_Reldai _- Vulcan priestesses

_Kolinahr - _A total logic discipline involving a rigorous training program to purge oneself of all emotion, with psychic surgery if necessary.

_Kaiidth_ - What is, is. (Common statement of Vulcan philosophy)


	4. Chapter Three

_"Take care with whom you meld, for the best of each of you will remain with the other."_

_- Vulcan proverb_

* * *

**Chapter Three**

He knew, of course, that he was being illogical.

His father had ordered him - not once, but many times - not to disappear into the Tar'hana highlands during their _shom's'ar'kada_.

Spock had ignored the command, this time and every time.

This time his father had even had a reason; this year they had come to the mountains in time for the _Yon-gad-muf_, the Fire Festival, where Spock was to have taken part in the Ceremony of Stones, and be formally accepted by his peers into a _nu'ri-travek, _a group of youths, all about the same age. His mother, too, had hoped he would participate, saying he "needed friends". Which was illogical, since while on occasion _t'hy'la_ bonds did form between members of such groups, it was far more common for them to be simple classrooms outside of classrooms - formally organized troupes of young people who all learned something together. Chess or a musical instrument were the most likely subjects.

He had told his mother that, being over 16 as he was, he had already learned chess, and he would progress with greater proficiency with his _ka'athyra_ if he could do so without group interference.

The truth was, he was tired of ceremonies.

They had begun when he was just six - barely into his seventh year - and they had come at regular intervals since then. First the _Than-Tha-Kash-Nohv_, where his father had presented him to T'Pau, and she had guided him through his first mind-meld. Had he been a girl, he reasoned, it might have been easier. Then his mother would have presented him to his father, and perhaps their present stand-off of attitudes might have been avoided. But he was a boy, and he had to be presented to a female relative. A psi-sensitive female relative. Which left out his mother, and pointed directly to T'Pau. Spock never wondered why most people found his grandmother to be mortally terrifying. It was because she was.

A few months later had come his first Water Ceremony, where the whole clan gathered to confirm him as his father's heir, and formally give him the title of a Scion of Surak.

And then there had been the Ceremony of the Wells, where the Clan Leaders had re-confirmed him as the Heir of his House, and inheritor of his family's most precious possessions - the three ancient wells that had been in the clan since time immemorial.

Only a few weeks after that there had been that bonding ceremony, with a girl he did not know, and a family he cared not to associate with. The Reldai of Gol had all accepted _kolinahr_, and their children were not meant for common bonding. He knew that it was merely further proof of his status in the S'chn T'gai clan, but, truth be told, he would have preferred a full betrothal. The _t'hy'la_ bond was far too easy for him to block out, and he had not made contact with T'Pring since that first moment of bonding. One cold, emotionless, petrifying touch had been enough. T'Pring only had room for logic, and denied rather than accepted her emotions. He had easily identified anger in her mind and bearing, but she had denied it even existed. A _t'hy'la_ bond with her was like being able to see a thread unraveled from a stranger's tunic - the only way to deal with it would be rude, so it was best forgotten, since it was only a small thing, anyway. The full _koon'ul_ would have been far more intimate from the first moment, and much, much harder to ignore. Perhaps, if that had been so, he would have been able to reconcile a bond with such a cold mind. Of course, there might have been even more difficulties with such a bond - Spock was highly emotional for a Vulcan, and this might have led him to take his wife before his Time. He knew this was the main reason full betrothal bonding had fallen out of favor - logically, children had less emotional control and thus had less control in this, the most emotional of all interactions, and this had led to problems - there had been unborn children lost because of poor timing, and children born too soon, all to parents who were still children themselves. But then, it was still suspect if he could even father children, or if he would ever reach his Time at all.

He shook his head. Life was complicated.

And then, of course, there had been his _kahs'wan_, where, soon after his seventh birthday, he had spent nine days alone in the desert to prove his Maturity.

Well, he had been alone save for I-Chaya. . .

He knew his father would be ashamed of him if he knew how much he still mourned for I-Chaya. The sehlat had been old, but the most fiercely loyal and acceptable of companions. It had been terrifying and heart-rending, and yet also somehow fitting that the usually gentle household pet would end his life in a death-battle to save Spock's life. The only thing which seemed to stem the sorrow in Spock's heart was to imagine trading places with I-Chaya that day, saving him instead of the sehlat saving Spock. He knew it was highly illogical to imagine taking on a le-matya unarmed, for the sake of an old pet, but admitting to himself that he had valued his friend's life as much as he valued his own was the only thing that could make his death mean enough to be bearable. His father must never know, and he suspected his mother already knew, that a large reason why he did not wish for friends - particularly ones his own age - was because he harbored a strange and terrible fear that their professed regard would never measure up to the voiceless love of a loyal sehlat. . .

And then there had been the Ceremony of Ten-Years, when he had graduated from the ten years of general schooling and entered the Great Shi'oren of Shi'Kahr, the graduates of which were far more likely to be accepted into the Vulcan Science Academy than graduates of any other school. Most of his classmates were 14 or 15, but he was only 13, having finished the fifth and sixth year's work in only one year, a feat so rare that he had been not only the youngest, but also the first of his class to receive the graduation acknowledgement.

The fact that his accomplishment had meant a class advancement, which subsequently had carried him out of enforced company with the then nine-year-old bullies who had tormented him for those first five years, was an entirely irrelevant by-product of his efforts. Or so he had told his father.

Then there had been another Water Ceremony when he had been 14; the traditional age for High Clan heirs to lead their first formal event and learn the more secret of the ceremonial High Vulcan phrases.

And just last year, during the wet season, they had joined in on a neighboring Clan's modernized celebration of the Festival of Natara - the God of Rain. It had been interesting to learn the traditional dances - forms which could clearly be seen to be the basic roots of at least three of Vulcan's modern martial arts, but there was little else to say about such a festival, save that his father's presence had lent it an importance it would not have otherwise have commanded. They had been invited back this year, but his father would be off-planet in a few months, and Amanda and Spock were due a visit to Earth.

For the first time in his admittedly short life, Spock was relieved at the prospect of a visit to Earth.

Eight highly formal ceremonial events in the last ten years was more than enough. He needed no more.

But he did need peace, and time alone, and the stars of Vulcan to spin in their own slow, careful dance overhead.

The late afternoon sun washed across the striated rust-red and soft peach coloured rock of the windswept terrain, lengthening the shadows, deepening contrasts, and giving a last surge of warmth to the small makeshift lean-to shelter that clung to a secluded niche in the tumbled rockface. Soon, the wind-carved hollow would be soothingly cool, and the seemingly inadequate tentlike shelter would actually trap just enough warmth to last all through the star-bright night. Off in the distance, the steams of Tar'hana's active caldera served to remind him of the not-so-very-distant danger of these lonesome expeditions. Camping in the near vicinity of an active volcano was not exactly logical, but, he found, he could not stay away.

It would be the second night Spock had spent alone out here, peaceful and awed under the stars, his heart full of something it never managed to acknowledge at any other time.

There was freedom out here, but there was also beauty, and serenity, and the fine, wild edge of danger blent in measure with sure, solid life.

It was like two worlds out here - the blissfully tame and the voraciously savage - but mixed thoroughly into one.

He never felt more at home.

He lay back on the smooth, curved stone, appreciating how perfectly this one spot matched the curve of his spinal column. Absently, he ate the handful of _barkaya _nuts he had foraged that afternoon, and took a small sip of water from his flask. The stars were emerging, as the light from Nevasa eased behind the horizon.

He found and traced with his eyes the five stars of the constellation _Aluk-hinek_.

He inhaled, slowly savoring the scent of the cooling rocks, mingled with air ever so slightly acrid from the distant steaming brimstone. He wanted - or perhaps needed - to watch the stars out here, alone, unlet and unencumbered. It mattered little that his father would punish him, and even less that his parents did not know where he was. He sank into his mind for a brief moment, lightly touching the familial bond he shared with his mother. He sent her the general feeling of his wellbeing, assuring her that he was in no danger, that he had not run off in anger, only in _need_.

She answered with her own strumming of the bond - always a stronger response than could logically be expected from a psi-neutral - and with a soft, warm feeling which was his mother's very Human way of saying "I love you".

In his mind he smiled, and returned his attention to the sky, and the _yel-nel-dathlar_ which could now be seen.

No, it mattered not at all that he would miss another long and overly formal Vulcan ceremony. It did not matter that his father would retreat even further away from him across the familial bond, and then exact some other punishment which would be infinitely less painful than that one action always was. It did not matter that he was a Vulcan in a Human's skin, or a Human in a Vulcan's skin, and he did not know which, and probably never would.

It didn't matter.

The stars didn't care.

* * *

=/\=

* * *

_**Shom's'ar'kada **__- _A rest from work; Vacation

_**Yon-gad-muf**_ - Traditional Festival of Fire, celebrating Vulcan's natural resources

_**Nu'ri-travek **__- _An organized group of young people; the Vulcan equivalent of Boy Scouts

_Ka'athyra_ - Vulcan lute

_Than-tha_ - Guide for a child's first mind-meld

_Kash-nohv _- Mind-meld

_Koon'ul_ - Childhood betrothal

_Kahs'wan_ - Test of passage to adulthood/ordeal of Maturity

_Le-matya_ - Wild, cat-like, omnivorous Vulcan mammal, has poisonous claws, and green-white diamond pattern in its fur

_Sehlat_ - Large bear-like animal with 6 inch fangs, often domesticated as a pet

_Shi'oren_ - School; Place of study

_Shi'Kahr_ - Vulcan's capital city

_Natara_ - The Pre-Reform Vulcan god of water

_**Barkaya **__- _A peanut-like legume.

_Nevasa_ - The name of Vulcan's sun.

_**Yel-nel-dathlar**_- Constellations, or familiar patterns of stars.

_Aluk-hinek_ - The Fishbone


	5. Chapter Four

_"All things begin with crisis."_

_- Vulcan Proverb_

* * *

**Chapter Four**

It began as she had been told it would.

For the past five days, T'Pring had felt an intermittent malaise - an aching head with no discernible reasons for it, a slowness in her bones that made her blood seem a trifle thicker than usual, a speeding of her heart when she turned over in her sleep - nothing worth speaking of. Yesterday, it had taken two hours instead of one for her meditation regimen to rid her of daily stress. Considering that she was almost 18, and thus facing the last stage of choices in her educational career, namely, whether or not to apply for a scientific accreditation course from the Vulcan Academy, or to continue her mathematical research apprenticed to the local interstellar observatory station, it was no wonder she had a slight superfluity of stress.

She had been tending her mother's vegetable garden, feeling the sun across her face, and doing a few astrophysics problems in her head, in anticipation of the examination her class would have this next week, and then she found herself, hours later, kneeling in the soft soil, staring at a _shu'vasaya_ plant in the near-dark of early evening.

For a moment she nearly panicked, and then she realized she did have memories of those hours, but they were buried deep within her subconscious. She had knelt there, staring at a common plant for hours on end, and her mind had treated the time like some terrible psychotic trauma had taken place.

_What is happening to me?_

She had not recently been ill, save for minor complaints, and there was no known contagion in circulation near Gol at this time of year. . .

This time of year. Vulcan had reached the perihelion of its orbit approximately three weeks ago. Her mother had secluded herself for two days last week. She had been warned when she was seven that she would probably follow her mother's cycle when her own Time came.

For a moment, the panic returned in treble force.

This was no nameless malady. This was _plak-tauw_.

With deliberate speed, T'Pring gathered her gardening tools, putting them away with much less than her usual tidiness, and she. . . _hurried_. . . yes, hurried, indoors to her own Seclusion Room.

_It is logical to fear that which one does not know. _

A Vulcan must learn to control that which he or she does not know.

She sat down on the soft mat provided, stilled her shaking hands, lit the _asenoi_ which was the room's sole decoration, and attacked her fear with logic.

Her mother was among those upon the _T'Yel-be-irak-sfek_ Cycle - not surprising, given Gol's geographic location, but even among the Reldai who had lived here for generations, there were still those on _Ka-wak-gad_ or _Las'hark-hayal _rotations. For herself, _plak-tauw_ had the possibility to begin at any time, as she had been exposed to all three of the hormonal cues. But she appeared to be following her mother - that was most common.

_There is nothing to fear._

She was a woman, and for her the Blood Fever did not herald the specter of death and destruction that it did for men. The past few days had_ not _been strange, they had been_ natural_.

Her mother had explained, once, long ago, that she would have a compulsion to meditate for long hours, feel sleepy, generally uneasy, and, perhaps, ill. Her mind would retreat into itself, it was possible she might not even remember her Time when it had finished. For a day or two, not more than three, she would need to stay, alone, in her Seclusion Room, and the fever would pass. Then the blood would come, all at once, in a great flow, soaking the special disposable mat every Seclusion Room had. This stage might hurt, but she must not be afraid of this blood - it was natural for her body to expel it. Then a healer would enter, and help her clean herself, perform a meld to be assured that her mental state had returned to normal, and give her food and water.

Her mother had also explained that she might feel the need to reach across her _t'hy'la_ bonds during the _plak-tauw_ - but she must not. It would transfer her malady onto them - a thoroughly unfair action, unless they were a bonded couple, in which case he would most likely be allowed into the Seclusion Room with her, to help her bear the burden of her Time.

She had known all this a year before she had been bonded to Osu Sarek's son - by which name she still called him, being unwilling to discover her intended's true name via historical records or holo-news recordings, and she would not ask her mother. The nature of that particular _t'hy'la_ bond made her a little more than slightly uneasy. She had not touched it for nearly ten years. Would she need to now? And how would he respond if she did? Would he respond at all?

_Enough._

She was completely and inexplicably exhausted. Her mother had been correct - she did wish, almost compulsively, to meditate.

_There is nothing to fear._

She chanted a short mantra or two, letting her mind follow its own instincts, falling deeper and deeper into her _katra'i'ki'so'ht-te -_ the combined whole of her being.

_Nothing to fear. . ._

It felt so right, and so comfortable.

_Nothing to . . ._

She finally slipped down into her subconscious, and everything went dark. For an interminable amount of time, there was only the soft, empty blankness, such a relief after days of stress.

And then there was a light. It began far away, faint and flickering, like the lighted wick of her firepot, but as she drew nearer, it grew, and swelled into a sphere of gently glowing starlight, golden and fragile, yet still indomitable, with threads of warmth trailing off into infinite dark.

It was her _katra_. Her innermost being. The long threads of golden light must be her bonds.

For a moment, she felt joy, and accomplishment.

Then, the softly golden sphere began to grow again, pulling her closer until it filled nearly all of her vision, and the thin membrane of its wall was centimeters from her skin. She tried to hold back, tried not to touch it, but the pull was stronger than any force she had ever encountered before. The palm of one of her hands touched the sphere, and pulled her whole body into itself. As she passed through the golden wall, all her selfhood retreated, all her mind stuttered and turned off, her emotions exploded and evaporated along mental pathways scraped raw and sparking. What had looked like a soft, fragile golden thing was made of stabbing shards of adamant, like Vulcan diamonds. The wall shone around her, reflecting herself back in upon herself. The person that was T'Pring was now trapped inside her own _katra_.

Her mind screamed in the agony and terror of a soul who has seen Hell, and known it to wear her own face.

In the Seclusion Room, her body slumped bonelessly sideways, her eyes half-open and sightless, her breathing almost too slow to detect, and her heart rate fluttering, thready, entirely uncertain.

It was three days before anyone found her.

* * *

Spock made his way to bed, more tired than was his wont. Perhaps the journey back from Earth had been more wearisome than anyone had suspected, and perhaps his half-Vulcan anatomy was having a slightly difficult time re-adjusting to Vulcan's environmental conditions. However it was, he thought, as he washed himself and put on his night-clothes, he was decidedly eager to enter a sleep state tonight.

But it _was _odd. . .

For the past several days, he had felt something - from within his mind or from without it, he was not sure - like a strange pulling, or a faint, almost indistinguishable calling from his homeworld, like a distant cry of a young_ teresh-kah_, hungry for its mate. He must return to his homeworld. He _must_. They were not getting there _fast_ enough. He had never been so relieved as he had been two days ago, when they put down on Vulcan.

The relief had not lasted long.

Since returning to Shi'Kahr, he had been absent-minded, almost clumsy, his mind drawn away from the simplest tasks, and his meditations strangely overpowering, prompting him to sleep at every opportunity.

He settled on his back, between pleasantly cool Earth-cotton sheets. He would remember to thank his mother. . . thank his mother. . . for them. . . tomorro-

Wait, what would he have to remember?

Unquestionably, he was tired.

Yes, that must be all it was.

* * *

Her eyes were open, but she could not see. The golden dark went on forever.

But that was alright, wasn't it? She didn't really want out of this smooth, warm place, did she?

A shadow, somehow blacker than the darkness, coalesced beyond the golden wall. Its silhouette became that of a _k'karee_ - a venomous snake, coiling and uncoiling in empty space. It stopped, then fell or floated to the sphere of her subconscious. It slithered across the outer surface, parting in half long-ways to go around spots where the bonds radiated outwards, and then rejoining on the other side.

Its barbed tail treacherously touched one - flick!

T'Pring's whole world vibrated with the pain of that one touch.

_Wouldn't you do anything to prevent ssssuch a pain?_

She knew not what this was, or who, but without speaking, somehow she still asked it.

It answered.

_I am you._

There was a soft, soothing laugh that was somehow neither soft, nor soothing.

_Sssstay here with me, and I'll shhhhow you._

Show her? Show her what?

_Wonderssss like you've never imagined._

No. No she didn't want to stay. . .

_Of coursssse you do._

The voice was pleading, gentle, but laced with something she could not identify.

_Let me shhhhow you. . ._

The shadow curled and coiled, parting and re-joining, dancing in mesmerizing shapes all down the sides of the sphere, coming tantalizingly close to the bonds as it went, but never touching them again.

All at once she was aware that she was lying on the very bottom of the golden sphere, unable to move. She must not let that shadow touch the other side of where she lay! She did not know why this was imperative, she only knew that it was. She gathered all her will, trying to move, a finger, an eyelid, her tongue, anything! Her lungs were empty of air and she could not fill them. She knew not if she was dead, but she did know that if that shadow touched her, she would truly die.

_Ssssuch a limited idea. . . death._

It was getting closer, slowing down to tease her with its nearness.

_Let me sssshow you how to be immortal. . . how to. . . ssss. . . never die._

No. No!

It was nearly upon her.

And then she realized that she was lying on a spot that was an entrance to a bond. The shadow could hurt her, but could not touch her.

_Dear ssssweet child, I would never hurt you. . ._

Go away!

_You cannot be rid of me. . ._

The thing laughed again.

_Until you are rid of yoursssself. . ._

A hissing sigh went up from it, and as it parted in two to go around her, it pulled away from the surface of the sphere, dissipating in a poisonous black cloud.

_There are worsssse things than me, my dear. I can wait. . . . . . . . . . . . ._

As soon as it was gone, she gave a long shuddering moan of horror and relief, and found that she could move again. It was odd - she could make noises now, but there was no air, and she did not feel the need to breathe. She blinked from mere habit - there was no need for her to do it. Her mouth was dry, her heart did not beat, but she felt the absence of neither. She stretched all her limbs, and found she still had all her arms and legs, at least. She rolled over and stood, sliding a little on the glassy smooth inside surface of her_ katra_. The spot where the bond joined it was warmer than the surrounding surface, but the entrance was just as hard, just as unrelenting.

She could not get out that way.

She began to walk up the side of the sphere, trying to get to another one of the bond entrances, unsure if the slippery surface would let her even get close, but it appeared gravity was entirely different here, for as she walked, each new step shifted the "down" direction. She walked a little faster, then began to run. She found that she could traverse the whole inside surface of the sphere, like it was the inverted surface of a planet.

She lay down on another doorway to a bond, hoping that it would open and let her out.

Only then did she think on the snake-thing's final words.

_Worse_ things? There could hardly be anything worse than the evil part of herself coming out to play with her. . .

Could there?

Over the entrance to a bond close to where she was laying, a small thing appeared. It was difficult to see exactly what it was in the dim, fluttering starlight, but it hung there, a meter above the surface, neither moving nor making any sounds.

At first she decided to ignore it, but as it hung there, tiny and still, it grew in importance, until she was sure it was staring at her.

With a sigh, she almost threw herself into a standing position, and walked over to look at the thing. . . and, oddly enough, it _had_ been staring at her, this whole time.

It was her own painted wooden doll that her father had sent to her when she was born. It was a smoothly carved object, its legs one grooved piece, and its arms folded around its waist. There was nothing a baby could catch on something, or easily break. Its wide, almond shaped eyes glowed whitely in the dimness.

And it hung there, silently staring.

Not for anything would T'Pring have touched it.

She backed away, meaning to try another entrance to another bond, fully expecting the doll to follow her.

It did not.

It just went on staring.

For a moment, she had thought that if it had begun to follow her, she would have screamed.

Now, she knew that its silent motionlessness was far, far worse.

Its wide, expressionless eyes had trapped her vision - she could not look away. She continued to back up, rising along the surface of the wall. She stared deeply back at the thing, remembering all the endearing names she had called it, all the games she had played with it, the smooth safety of its surface, the solid comfort of its weight. . .

She had backed up far enough to break its hold on her vision.

There was a whining, grinding, cracking sound, like two massive pieces of glass were being ground together by a brutal hand.

Finally the doll moved, tilting back to try to catch her sight again.

T'Pring turned her back on it, and began to run.

It flew after her, rocketing faster than she could ever hope to go.

If the snake-thing had been her _I'ki_, then this must be her _So'ht_. In her weakened, fractured state, there was no way she could suppress it.

Still she ran, trying to keep ahead of the flying doll, but it was too fast, too fast. . . it hit her with a mighty crunching blow, shattering her spine, she was certain, and sending her plummeting head-first into the solid adamant of the golden sphere. . .

* * *

In the middle of the night Spock awoke, sharply aware of a crick in his neck, and a pain in his head. He was baffled by it, since his sleeping posture was ideal and he had not injured himself recently.

He was also aware that he had been dreaming, but he was unsure of the subject of the dream.

At that moment he experienced a feeling so strange he was always afterwards at a loss to explain it, even through a meld.

He knew he was needed back, back in that same dream, but not him - his_ katra_. A powerful sleepiness paired with a sharp insistence that he also stay awake drew him away, and, though he was still unsure, he fell rapidly back to sleep.

* * *

For a moment she thought she was looking in a mirror.

The face, hair, arms and torso were all of the T'Pring she knew from her own reflection, but her eyes were closed. How could she be seeing herself?

Then, a sparking shiver ran over her, making her aware of her surroundings. She was in one of the large bedrooms at her father's estate outside Shi'Kahr, and she was looking down at herself in the bed.

It did not occur to her to question why she was floating near the ceiling.

Off to one side of her prone form, her mother sat with needles and silken thread, embroidering robes like she always did when there was a crisis.

_I am the crisis._

Ordinarily, she would have felt ashamed for causing such an uproar, but she could not find it in herself to _feel_ anything just at the moment.

Strange. Such a state ought to have made her satisfied, but, as things were. . .

Her father entered the room, interrupting her musings.

She had seen him only four times - once at her_ Than-Tha_-K_ash-Nohv, _once here, in this house after her _khas-wan, _and two times at Gol - once over ten years ago and again almost three years ago. He came only for help with his Time, never to see her. He had not gone to her mother those last two times, but to another Reldai, T'Kela. She had not borne him a child. T'Pring knew nothing else about her father save that his name was Velon, son of Vakha, of the clan H'kl Y'ner, of the House of Tassus.

Now she saw that his hair was a rare shade of dark rusty brown, and his form and bearing were fine. He had been gifted with great beauty, even for a son of a High Clan.

"The nurse says there is little more that can be done," his voice was clipped and hard, "Unless her mate. . ."

"If the boy has not saved her by now, then there is little chance he will ever do so," replied her mother, stoically.

"Had you betrothed them, as I requested you do, then he would been there when she traveled too deep into her _katra_, and he would have added his strength to her own, and she would not now be in this _ritevakh_."

As he spoke, her father walked over and knelt by her bed, putting his hand protectively on the top of her head.

"I did all I could," said her mother, "As Osu Sarek did not offer his son for the full _koon'ul,_ it would have been impolite to insist, and illogical to - "

"And is it_ logical _to leave a child helpless in these matters? Is that polite?" Her father's voice registered clear amounts of anger and frustration.

"As I recall," her mother said, with censure in her tone, "It was you who suggested S'chn T'gai, and Sarek's son in particular, even knowing his wife's pedigree - or lack thereof. I did all as you suggested, even after our child chose my clan." She looked at Velon's hand on her daughter's head, "I would be within my rights to take her away now. . ."

"No!" Her father nearly shouted the word, "She has not even been here a full day, you_ must _not - you_ will _not take her - T'Sai, I forbid it." Her father's hand tightened a little in her hair. "You brought her here so that I might exercise my right to help my child, and you must let me. Even if the only help I can offer is to say farewell."

"You would leave her to the mercies of a half-Human who clearly does not know what to do?"

Velon's other hand came up, and wrapped around T'Pring's upper arm. He bowed his head for a moment, then looked up, straight into her mother's eyes.

"You know why I came to you when I did, T'Sai. It was not because my wife was not willing or able to help me, nor was there any medical reason why she ought not. You know what curse is on my line - the state my father and two brothers died in, and the state my sister is in, even now."

He looked down at his daughter, with such care and tenderness in his eyes, T'Pring could scarcely believe it was directed at her.

"I came to you because I had decided that one with my blood ought not to father children."

He looked back up at her mother, "It was cruel fate that you were burdened with one of my kin for a child - it is why I never returned to you. Out of fear of further burdening you. You know this?"

Her mother nodded.

"Then why did you not do as I requested, and betroth her completely? It might even yet delay the Madness, and it _would_ have prevented. . . this."

"It is _pon'farr_, Velon, with too strong of a _plak-tauw_," her mother's voice nearly stumbled over the words they did not speak, even amongst themselves, "Either she will die, or she will awaken."

"Wrong T'Sai," said her father, "There is a third, far more terrible option - she will awaken, but she will not be the T'Pring you know any more - she will be a stranger, and will wear a stranger's eyes." Her father's eyes glistened with impossible tears, "Would you have that _t'sai_?" He had said "my lady", not her mother's name,"Would you have her be a broken vessel for the rest of her mindless days?"

"Of course not. . ."

"Then why did you not ensure her safety? It is our way to ensure the safety of our men - we will go to any lengths to protect them, even giving up good strong women to those who do not deserve them - why do we do less for our women, T'Sai? Why?"

Her mother blinked and did not answer.

"You_ knew _of my kin's affliction - how could you not? When I first came to you, I nearly killed you."

"The fault was mine - that first day, I did not make the bond strong enough."

"It was _not_ your fault - me and mine have always been thus. We have no medium, no escalation period, no warning before our natures turn on us. It has been made trebly hard for us to accept our emotions, T'Sai - the ordinary avenues of treatment do not work. Either we are cold and stern, far colder and sterner than we ought to be, or we are mad with rage, or passion, or. . ." He broke off, and lowered his voice, gaining some measure of control over the emotions he had been showing, "I have heard that Humans have names for such afflictions - one of which I believe is called "bipolar syndrome". A normal Vulcan, stripped of logic, might appear to have this illness, but me and mine. . . we _do_. And it is far worse in us than it ever was in any Human." He paused, getting further control of himself, "The Humans appear to have cured it in themselves, and many other such emotional illnesses, late last century."

"Was that why you insisted upon Osu Sarek's son?" Her mother sounded strangely subdued.

"It is." He looked down at the sleeping form of herself again, the care in his eyes more distant than before, but still a most welcome thing to see. "I had hoped that the Human strain in him, mixed with the blood of Surak himself, might quell some of the difficulties for our daughter."

"Why did you not explain before?"

"Besides being hardly given the chance, I had assumed you understood."

"She still chose the Reldai when the choice was given her."

"It is natural that she would. When not given to one extreme, she would be given to the other." Her father sighed a little, "You admit that even considering undergoing _kolinahr_ **is** extreme?"

"Of course, but, it is necessary," her mother paused a little, "You know she has not taken the final step?"

"She has not?" There was hope in her father's voice.

"No. She has two years left of _c'thia_ training before she can be accepted for the ritual."

He father nodded, "Still, the decisions she has made - and those that have been made for her - were ill-informed at best, and left her little defense for the intense regression her _katra_ would experience during her Time."

"It is never easy to experience the loss of self, Velon." Her mother sounded very slightly compassionate, "Whether it is like it is for men, with too much of self, or like it is for women, with too little, it is never easy to bear."

"Yes, that is true."

"Is she truly lost, then?"

"Unless her mate comes to help her. . . as you say, with a man's _too much _of self, he would be able to balance her _katra_, but as it is. . ."

"They are not well suited."

"I am not so sure." Her father reached out, preparing to meld with her.

"Kroikah! You cannot, Velon!" Her mother fairly jumped from her chair, dropping the robe she had been working on, scattering thread and a handful of glittering, dartlike needles across the carpeted floor, "It is Forbidden, even for you. For any of us to try and save her. . . it is_ kae'at k'lasa_."

"I know the law, T'Sai." Her father reached for her face again, "And have no fear. It is not I who will save her."

At the moment her father touched her mind, the floating mist that she had become began to fall, and all at once she was back within the sphere of starlight that was her _katra_.

* * *

The golden light was dimmer now, like the stars close to dawn, when what little shining they could make would die, never to be reborn in quite the same way again.

She wanted to feel frightened - of death, or of insanity, a living death - but she was alone, here in this place, and could not muster the will to feel anything. She was tired.

So tired. . .

She lay down on the nearest entrance to a bond, and wished for sleep.

It did not come.

Instead, another shadow grew in the darkness beyond the wall, a shadow circling one of her bonds, and flying down its length. It crackled a little, like a tiny thunderstorm were housed within its grey mists, and the gold thread of starlight in its center were lightning.

The ring of shadow came to rest upon the outer surface of her _katra_, and resolved itself into the silhouette of two hands, one pressed upon either side of the bond-place.

Suddenly the sphere was filled with the scent of steaming stones, of rust-red boulders made dark and fragrant by the first winter rain. A blessed scent, too precious to be real.

"_Ko-fu_," said the bond, speaking from a great distance, "_Ko-fu_, you will remember."

Remember?

"Yes, _ko-fu_. . ." the shadow-hands pushed at her, very gently, "Remember. . ."

The insistent word brought a sudden purpose to her wandering mind. She leapt to her feet and ran to a bond-place at the opposite end from where the hands were, but that was good. This place was where she needed to be. She lay down on her stomach, and pressed her face against the warm, diamond-hard circle.

It was the same bond her wooden doll had appeared over; the same one the shadow-snake had touched to cause her pain.

She remembered the moment she had first entered this place, and the scraping, stabbing terror. . .

She screamed.

It was a scream of utter need, of finality, of the nearest one can come to death without taking that last breath.

It was a cry for help.

And it worked.

She rolled away from the bond-place, trying to recover from the effort of such a soul-rending sound, and looked back to the bond where the shadow-hands were, but they were gone.

When she looked again at the the bond-place into which she had screamed, someone else was laying upon it.

It was the boy. Her boy. Sent to be her _shayuf'pach-te_. Her last resort, which ought to have been her first.

"Who are you?" they both asked at the same time.

"I am T'Pring," she said faintly, as the boy sat up and straightened his sleep-tunic, "And you are my_ T'hy'la_."

He gingerly stood, sliding as she had done at first, "I am Spock," he said, "What is this place?"

Spock. Spock, his name was Spock. . .

She was unsure why this was so important to her, but she repeated it to herself many times, so as to remember it.

"We are within my _katra_. I cannot get out."

"Have you tried"

"Oh, yes, and the bonds would not open for me. . ."

"Then why am I here?"

"You are the only one who has the right."

"And what am I supposed to do?"

"I do not know."

He looked contemplative, but not frustrated. He came over and sat next to where she lay.

"This is _plak-tau_?"

"No," she shook her head, "It is a coma caused by _plak-tauw_."

"I have never heard of this."

"It is the woman's Time - you did not know?"

"My mother's Times are much different than a Vulcan woman's."

He looked sad, not ashamed.

"But I have seen my mother and father care for each other - each in their own way. My father cares for my mother in his Vulcan way, and she cares for him in her Human way."

"And this works?"

"They are both still alive, and sane." It was clear he knew there were some who would question the latter, but such ones were unimportant at this time.

"I see," she said, "Then may we try our way first, and then the Human way?" She held out her hand, first two fingers outstretched.

"That is reasonable," he agreed, and gave her two of his fingers to complete the embrace.

He was tentative, but not shy with the _ozh'esta_, and soon he was caressing her hands, one after the other, awakening her emotions for the first time in what seemed like years.

She did not yet feel the need to breathe, nor had her heart started beating again, but she finally began to feel. . . _alive_. . . once more. The fractured parts of her _katra_ were drawing together, but not yet. . . not yet. . .

"Spock, Spock. . ." she whispered, "I want. . . I want. . ."

He gathered her into his arms then, and pressed his mouth to the side of her head. He shifted slightly, and did the same thing to her ear. And then it seemed he could not stop - he kissed her eyelids, chin and hair, over and over his mouth was pressed to her nose and cheeks, and the side of her neck.

All of a sudden, he stopped, looking at her like he was wondering why he had just done that.

Then, very gently, he touched his lips to her mouth.

She had not expected the Human caresses to be the stronger ones, but this. . . it was overpowering, beautiful, terrifying, too much and not enough - it was like everything at once.

Her heart started beating, her lungs filled with air, and they fell through the bond.

He was a golden thread of starlight, still wrapped around her, and carrying her out of the prison of her soul.

There was a violent knotting of pain from within her, but he was still there, carrying her. . . carrying her. . .

They both dissolved into the mist of memory.

* * *

She opened her eyes.

She wished she hadn't, for a heavy mess of green-stained cloth was being lifted from between her thighs. She flicked her eyes to the other figures there with her, hoping they were not the shadowy terrors she had been living with for so long now.

As she looked from face to face, from her mother, to her father, to the nurse, to the healer who had been summoned to remove her first cast-off blood, T'Pring realized, finally, that she was awake.

She wept.

It was this moment - after the blood-fever but before the return of logic - that Vulcan minds were at their most vulnerable. She _must_ control her emotions, or there was the possibility that she could slip back into the Shadowlands. She searched in her mind for the golden thread of starlight that had saved her from that terrible dark place, but found it had already closed back off. Still, it was a warm surety, locked away within her secret heart. Spock had kept her sane. She _was_ sane. She could control herself again.

Her father dried her eyes.

She looked at him, with the care buried deep in his expression, and his many actions of understanding that she had never experienced at Gol. He was a worthy father, far more so than she had ever credited. He deserved better from her than what she had so far given him.

Then she turned to her mother, very clear and sure of her decision.

"I am going to stay here, Ko'mekh."

She saw her mother blink, and her father almost smile, and then, at last, she fell into a deep and natural sleep.

* * *

That morning, Spock awoke with blood upon his lips, and sweat staining his sleep-tunic. Judging by the imprint of his own teeth on the inside of his mouth, the blood was his own, but, by the smell of it, the sweat was _not_. A pheromone transfer, then. She had given him her affliction, and he had borne it, as she could not. It would not have been unusual, except that he had only ever been told of such a thing happening in the opposite direction.

He said nothing to anyone, washed his mouth, put his tunic in the basket to be cleaned, and tried not to think about the dream which he knew was not a dream.

He must speak with T'Pau.

* * *

=/\=

* * *

_**Shu'vasaya**_ - A hardy desert creeper with trumpet-shaped leaves, and very small blue flowers. It produces a bright green, edible gourd. The seeds of this gourd are ground into the high protein flour most commonly used in Vulcan breads and cakes.

_Plak-tau_ - Blood-fever, the final part of a male's pon'farr

_**Plak-tauw**__ - _Blood-fever, the primary event of a female's menstrual cycle

_Pon'farr_ - The Mating Time, or Time of Mating refers to the entirety of the Vulcan reproductive phenomena; occurs generally once every 7 years for adult males, twice a year for adult females.

_**T'Yel-be-irak-sfek**_ - The female's biological cycle when the timing is controlled by the perihelion and aphelion of Vulcan's orbit.

_**Ka-wak-gad**_ - The female's biological cycle when the timing is controlled by Vulcan's equinoxes.

_**Las'hark-hayal **_- The female's biological cycle when the timing is controlled by Vulcan's solstices.

_K'karee _- Mottled blue-grey poisonous snake; found in the desert

_I'ki_ - Id, or Desire, part of the katra; tightly controlled by mature Vulcans

_**So'ht**_ - Ego, or Emotion, part of the katra; often highly suppressed by trained Vulcans

_**Shayuf'pach-te**_ - Super-Ego, the strongest of all parts of the katra, the root of Desire and Emotion and the home of Conscience and Reason

_Katra_ - The soul or the living essence of a Vulcan; a combination of soul and memory

**_Katra'i'ki'so'ht-te_** - Complete soul, or fullness of being, referencing one's entire memory, and its state of oneness with the soul; the full-length version of the word "katra"

_Teresh-kah_ - A silver-colored bird-like predator; a Vulcan eagle

_Ritevakh_ - A coma; state of deep and often prolonged unconsciousness; usually the result of disease or injury

_C'thia _- The philosophy of reality and truth

_T'sai_ - Lady, or "My Lady"; Female honorific. Can be used as a proper name; means "ladylike".

_Kroikah_ - Stop immediately!

_Kae'at k'lasa_ - Mind-rape; the act of forcing one's will upon another using one's psionic abilities, especially the mind-meld. By Vulcan law, it is a crime punishable by death.

_Ko-fu_ - Daughter; a female child

_Ozh'esta_ - Finger embrace; the touching of the index and middle fingers to another person's index and middle fingers. In Vulcan culture, it is considered an acceptable public gesture between bondmates and/or t'hy'la.


	6. Chapter Five

_"It is often thought that Vulcans generally disapproved of Humanity, from the time of First Contact until well after the Great Destruction. This is erroneous. What is by so many perceived as distaste in a Vulcan, is, very often, the remnants of envy."_

_- From "Vulcan And Human History" - Vol. 3, Ch. 12, by S'chn T'gai T'Pau, of New Vulcan_

* * *

**Chapter Five**

The tomatoes had not started as they ought to have done.

T'Pau clucked her tongue at the tiny malformed sprouts, wondering momentarily if it was the soil composition, the air/water mixture in the greenhouse, or if this batch of seeds were somehow genetically inferior, and then the scent rising from the tray of sprouting compound told her that T'Dekk had once again sprayed the wrong fertilizing agent on the Earth-origin plants. Which agent was used did not matter greatly to a strong, mature plant, well started and fully rooted, but to the delicate seedlings in the sprouting trays, the wrong chemicals could often be disastrous.

She lifted the wasted tray of sproutlets, setting it on the anti-grav sled beside her. Then she quickly programmed the unit to take the tray to T'Dekk's room, and leave it there. No other reprimand ought to be needed, though it was true that T'Dekk was a woman of, perhaps, less-than-optimal memory capacity. Previous lapses had not ruined a full tray of seedlings, however, and T'Pau was sure that such a waste of time and effort, especially when it involved one of her most prized offworld heirloom varieties, would bring the other woman up short, hopefully cementing the need for greater care into her mind.

Fortunately, it was still early enough in the season to start again.

T'Pau sat at one of the worktables, and began to assemble a new tray for her justly famous tomatoes.

Well. To be completely honest and fair, they were also Amanda's.

During the last ten or eleven generations, Vulcan culture had been through some essential, if not entirely rapid, changes. Vulcans were nearly always cautious of change, but it was still natural for cultures to evolve, and they did, albeit reluctantly. Her own Clan and House, she thought, with a sparing measure of pride, had been on the forefront of these changes for several centuries.

Besides being the Clan from which the First Contact with Humanity had been made, they had been among the first to put an emphasis on diplomacy in interplanetary contacts, rather than a close-minded (albeit logical) assumption of their own superiority; Among the first to advocate for non-essential trade agreements with races they had previously only had superficial dealings with; Among the first to encourage _tourism_ as a means of inter-species communication; Among the first to champion modernization of their ancient gods and the festivals that went along with them; And among the first to allow that childhood betrothals often spawned many more difficulties than benefits.

Skon had been her choice-mate, not her childhood _t'hy'la_. He had been. . . _passionate_ was the wrong word, and so was _kind_. _Noble _was better, but _genteel_ was too. . . soft. . . and neither word could fully encompass the force of his personality. He had, indescribably,_ fit _her, in so many ways. It was much, much more often than twice a year that T'Pau felt his absence.

She remembered the mild scandal that had been her pregnancy with Sarek. He had been conceived entirely outside either her or Skon's Times.

Perhaps. . . perhaps that was one of the reasons for her son's. . . _progressive._ . . choice in mates.

But for all that, there were traditions and deeply held beliefs that had never changed, and most likely would not - not for a very long time.

One of these was the almost secret tradition of Dowry.

It was not well known or understood even outside of the insular High Clans and their ritual culture, but Dowry was among their oldest and most important traditions. It differed from most Human ideals of Dowry in that the monetary value of the items shared was, in a large part, irrelevant. The ideal of it was that when two families shared a connection as deep as two people given in marriage, those families ought also to share in each other's particular gifts and talents also.

If the family of the bride had, for example, a long history of being tailors, and the woman herself had a particular talent for making _naric_ jelly, then the family of the groom had a right to expect gifts of these two things. Meanwhile, the groom's family might be particularly known for skill in stonework, and the male himself might have a talent for music, in which case, the bride's family might logically expect their _glat-kov_ - the sign-stones that marked the borders of their lands - to be mended or replaced, and the younger children among their clan to have a willing music tutor.

It was a fine old tradition, not commonly known among their interstellar neighbors, but preserved and cherished amongst themselves.

Thus, given that Sarek had seemingly set himself to break down _all_ known traditions, it had been a thorough shock when Amanda had arrived on Vulcan, bearing nearly four dozen packets of heirloom-quality Earth seeds, claiming that they were her Dowry, and that T'Pau was obligated to grow and nurture them. Clearly Sarek had told his wife what would be expected of her, but, in T'Pau's mind at least, it had _not_ been expected. Not from Sarek, certainly not from a Human woman, and manifestly not a Dowry of such exotic quality or (as she later learned) such incredible monetary value. From beautifully rare purple carrots, to delicate haricot verts, to three types of fragrant basil, to tiny golden potatoes, and even a highly endangered White Peach tree seed, Amanda had brought an impressively wide selection of her homeworld's flora to Vulcan, and was righteously insistent that she be allowed to cultivate them all.

It had ended with Amanda taking over almost half of T'Pau's own personal greenhouse for several months, while she got the bulk of the seeds properly started, and the caretakers fully instructed in the care of Earth-plants.

Her daughter-in-law had then insisted that she be allowed to incorporate the fruits of the plants into the clan's diet - claiming that a little variety hurt no one, and those vegetables or fruits that one person did not like, would surely be acceptable to someone else.

It had taken time, but not too long after the second harvest, it became clear that nearly everyone in the household had developed a taste for one or more of the Earth foods, many preferring them over the Vulcan equivalents. Sarek had naturally led the way, stating many times that he preferred the habanero peppers Amanda grew to even the local variety of _yon-savas_ available to them.

T'Pau herself had formed a preference for the deep-red colored Cuostralee tomatoes, and would not let anyone other than herself do the main portion of the work involved with growing them.

The first time she had reprimanded a servant for attending to them when she had not expressly commanded it, Amanda had been there, and the Human woman had _laughed_ - laughed outright - and then looked T'Pau in the eyes and said she had told her so.

It was then, and only then, that T'Pau had relented in her attitude towards Sarek's eccentric wife. It had been the first, but not the last time her daughter-in-law had surprised her with her wisdom, and impressed her with her tenacity. While the Human woman was not and never could be _all_ that T'Pau had hoped for her son, she had been forced to admit that there were many endearing qualities about Amanda, her creativity and curiosity not least among them, and not even a Klingon could fault her bravery.

T'Pau carefully smoothed a thin layer of fine, clean gravel over the base of the newly assembled sprouting tray. Then she measured out equal portions of the specially-formulated Earth-biomatter-specific planting soil and the nitrogen-oxygen balancing gel, and with a trowel, slowly, thoroughly mixed them. When it had become a soft, smooth, homogeneous paste, she spread it evenly over the gravel. Then, she placed a fine wire mesh over the prepared tray, which separated the sprouting compound into thirty small, fertile squares.

She reached for the stasis containers that held the heirloom seeds, choosing out the one that held the tomatoes without having to read the label. Last year had delivered such an entirely successful crop that it had been impossible to choose only the usual forty perfect specimens to keep for seed, and T'Pau had doubled it. The container holding the heirloom tomato seed was twice as full as almost all the others.

Last week, Amanda had smiled at that, too.

Deliberately, T'Pau counted out thirty of them, and then placed each one in the center of its own square of sprouting compound. Then, she lifted the wire mesh away, sprinkled a thin layer of the special soil over the seeds, and lightly sprayed the whole tray with water that had been fortified with Earth minerals.

She carefully placed the tray in the space on the starting table that had been left empty by the ruined set. Then she picked up the stylus next to the PADD assigned to this table and left _very_ specific instructions regarding their care.

Satisfied, she took up her hand-clippers and a small woven _mevak_ work-basket, and went outdoors.

She had decided long ago that her garden ought to be a thing of note - among the clan at the very least, if not among all who respected the House of Surak. Making it that way had been the work of nearly a full hundred years by this time, seeing that her father had given the greenhouse to her when she had been just twenty-one. In his own grand, authoritarian manner he had been encouraging her in a talent she had then only just discovered.

The Clan House was, of necessity, the largest building S'chn T'gai possessed, with rooms for at least a hundred married couples, their children, and all the attending servants they would need. Naturally, only a few dozen people, including the servants, lived here continually - it was only on High days, festivals, or full-clan ceremonies that everyone congregated here. Even Sarek lived a few kilometers away.

Still, it was the central building of the Clan, and most impressive of its kind.

The Eastern Wing, where her private rooms were located, enclosed an expansive courtyard. An ideal place for a garden, this courtyard had been her especial project ever since her father had made it clear her skill with growing things ought to be a skill she _used, _not merely _possessed_. He had seen to it that a long, winding pathway of excellently fitted stones had been laid down, and that the soil within the huge quadrangle had been tempered, fertilized and softened, but everything else he had left to her.

Her first projects had been to put in a border of _shu'vasaya_, and to set out a few dozen stone pots filled with flowering _plomeek_, reasoning that, if they were growing staple foods, at the least there would be no waste.

After that, slowly, year-by-year, the garden had been filled in. In places there were great, curving swaths of herbs with one Sitting Stone in the middle, in other spots there were the hardy _ic'tan_ trees, sculpted as if by wind, but actually painstakingly trimmed by hand. Everywhere there was clean, manicured gravel, interspersed with richly well-watered soil. There were large patches of vegetables, many fruiting or edible cacti, and in the center of it all, a beautifully tall _sher'khah_ tree, with its smooth grey, almost black skin, and dry, paper-thin leaves the color of honey.

Many of Amanda's Dowry plants had ended up out here. The three different aloes, and the two fruiting cacti had adapted with ease, as had the agave plant, and the sage. The three types of spicy peppers were in their element. Even the peanuts had managed to survive well, though they still needed more water than was optimal.

The one thing that had shocked everyone, and still made almost every visitor stand still and stare, was the peach tree.

Everyone in the household had balked when she had announced that she intended to plant the rare white peach outdoors in the western corner of the garden. Even Amanda had tried to dissuade her, but she had stood firm.

For, in the Western corner, there was a tiny natural spring - one of the reasons her father had so strongly insisted that she make a garden here. It was very small - the pool it made was not more than twenty centimeters across, but it was steady, deep, cool, and true. It was only in that corner that the pale, pale green Vulcan grass - the only species of true grass that Vulcan possessed - would consent to grow. It was there that T'Pau herself had planted the peach tree, when it was five years old, and strongly rooted.

Everyone had despaired.

They had all been wrong.

She placed her finely woven workbasket beneath one of the small _induka _trees that marked the entrance to the obsidian-stone rimmed circle of grass, and removed her hand trimmers from her pocket. She reached up, and began to remove the dead or superfluous leaves and branches of the tree. It waved in the almost imperceptible morning breeze, it's Earth-green leaves filtering the Vulcan sunlight like it was a perfect emerald. The spring made gurgling sounds at her feet.

It was a tiny spring, but still of use. A small force field had been put in place over it so it would not evaporate - it could be disabled easily if one wanted to drink from the pool - but most of the time it rippled and gurgled protected from the harsh Vulcan atmosphere. To most observers, it was merely a small pool of moving water, but actually it bubbled up from no-one knew where, and drained away down a long, infinitesimal crack in Vulcan's crust. Of course, it did not actually drain away any more - the water was caught now by a special reservoir which fed a sophisticated underground irrigation system. It, alone and thoughtless, very nearly _was_ the life of this garden.

Of course, it was why she had planted the peach tree here, of all places. Only here would it be assured the water that an Earth-tree needed. Only here would it get the gentler morning sun, and be protected by the shade of the house from the harsher afternoon heat. Even so, for the first three years it had been outdoors, it did not flower, and from time to time a cool-air force field had to be erected to keep it form entirely burning up. Then, on the fourth year, it had flowered, and brought forth a tiny, unimpressive crop. Amanda had sighed, but still gathered the fruit, not letting any of the family have even a taste, saying she had plans for these, the rarest of Earth-fruits.

And then, the fifth year it had lived outdoors, it had burst forth in a snow of abundant flowers, and the crop of fruit was astonishing beyond measure for a small, young tree so far from home.

T'Pau had told her daughter-in-law that this time _she_ had told _her_ so.

Amanda had smiled, gathering the greater portion of the fruit for her "plans", but letting the family share in the bounty this time.

T'Pau had let a sparkle of approval gleam for a moment in her eyes.

It had been that year which Amanda had decided to once again surprise her Vulcan family. She had planned and instigated a full-clan dinner-feast, for the occasion of hers and Sarek's tenth wedding anniversary. The clan had shaken its collective head, for such things were unheard of in their culture, but Amanda was the Wife of the Heir, and her request was not unreasonable.

Amanda had given strict instructions to the chefs, but had done no cooking herself - she knew by then that to do so would have been tantamount to declaring herself an outsider* - but still what the kitchens had produced for dessert that day had been instantly named, and was still called among the clan - "Amanda's Food".

The peaches had been sliced and placed in shells of pastry, sprinkled with nectar of agave and sweet spices, and baked until the fruit bubbled in its own syrup, and the crust was as golden as _sher'khah_ leaves.

Amanda had called them "peach pies", but many in the clan, and not just the children, could scarcely accept that they were a traditional food from Earth, insisting that Amanda must have invented them.

T'Pau's eyes had twinkled, and Amanda had not held back her laughter.

The clan had certainly been surprised, but it was increasingly impressed upon T'Pau that this was no bad thing. . .

In fact, it was good, she reasoned, that Amanda had taken to surprising her Vulcan family at every opportunity, for T'Pau had become accustomed to expecting her daughter-in-law's pronouncements to be unexpected, and this had allowed the older woman to remain outwardly as calm as ever when, soon after their tenth anniversary, Amanda and Sarek had announced that they were expecting a child. A naturally conceived child, from Amanda herself, not a test tube or adoption agency.

It was impossible to express how deeply this surprise had shaken T'Pau.

First, it was known to be impossible. Genetic scientists had been working on the problem for at least two generations to her knowledge, probably much longer, and all of them agreed - there was a fundamental incompatibility between the genes that determined blood type, and thus, basic cell respiratory and reproductive mechanics. In Humans, the mother's genetics dictated the child's blood composition. In Vulcans, the father's genetics were the decisive factor. Attempting to naturally combine Human and Vulcan reproductive cells - using either Vulcan or Human ova - had always resulted in a successful fusing, followed by an almost immediate breakdown of cell components, caused by a catastrophic failure in the cell division mechanics. Attempting to genetically modify one or the other reproductive cells had been highly unsuccessful in a myriad of other ways - in short, according to all experts, it was completely impossible.

Second, she had resigned herself to adopted grandchildren from Sarek as soon as he had declared he intended to marry a Human. She would never expect an alien woman to undergo the dangers of an inter-species pregnancy for so archaic a reason as "purity" of bloodline. There were others who could take up the title Scion of Surak - her son owed nothing to the clan in that regard. She knew that many Vulcans would not agree with her, but she found it merely the result of reason. Logically, Sarek and Amanda would adopt, and she, T'Pau, would accept that child as theirs, whatever its race or origin. Perhaps that child would not have inherited the clan's most ancient titles, but it would have still belonged to them.

Finally, it had been made known to her that Amanda had already experienced several miscarriages, the last of these giving her a severe case of copper poisoning, and she had thought that afterwards her daughter-in-law had taken the very logical step of _ensuring_ she could not have children.

And then had come the announcement. She was going to have a child.

It was only logical that this Human woman's life had taken on an importance greater than the sum of her doings. She had earned her place in the clan. She deserved to be protected, and if that meant she would never have children. . .

But she was _going_ to have a child.

To lose Amanda, now, would have meant disaster, not just for Sarek, but for T'Pau personally, and the clan collectively.

It was only logical.

As T'Pau remembered the year of Amanda's pregnancy, she clipped the peach tree leaves with more vigor than was strictly necessary. The memory of those tense months was not a soothing one.

Amanda had been constantly ill, her immune system weakened, and her metabolic functions highly disturbed. There had been two times when she had fainted, and T'Pau had never seen such fear as on the face of her son when he had held his unconscious wife, unsure of her survival, and doubly unsure of the life she carried within her.

But, the child had been born, and Amanda had lived, and throve in her new position of Mother of the Heir. Sarek had done well to name the boy Spock, for his presence had indeed brought much peace.

For two days the clan had reveled in the quiet joy of knowing their name would go on.

It had been then that the geneticists had descended.

Naturally, T'Pau had not been ignorant of the rumors that had been circulating about Amanda's pregnancy. Many of them had even been spawned on Vulcan, not just on Earth. Quite besides the crude references to "the milkman" or "the postman" it had been put in circulation that her pregnancy was entirely a hoax, and when the time came, a Vulcan child would be produced, but it wouldn't be _genetically_ Sarek's or Amanda's child.

Consequently, when the scientists came in force to inspect the infant, T'Pau had allowed only the family's most trusted healer inside, and had restricted even him to one single blood draw, knowing he would do the requisite genetic tests proving her grandson's legitimacy, and then she had bid the rest depart. Into the ensuing uproar she had stated, with all the firm dignity of her years and position, that it was clear they were not here for scientific reasons, as it was extremely logical to assume that the child was the result of his parents' adaptation to each other, and if they at all accepted this fact, then why had they not been interested in Amanda beforehand, and why, for that matter, had they not clamored for an audience with the thriving peach tree in her garden? Both it and her daughter-in-law were marvels of adaptive tenacity, and as it was now obvious that they were not the objects of true scientific interest, she was convinced that their current celebrity stemmed from an emotional source and not a scientific one. If her grandson wished, after he attained his majority, to become an object of scientific research, then she would not stand in his way, but until then, the child would receive only the most essential professional attention, and they all would leave. Immediately.

As she thought back on the incident, she realized she had come within two steps of actually ordering the house guards to attack them.

She would never forget the thanks in Amanda's eyes when she had told her of her words to the scientists, but to T'Pau, it was mere logic. To allow a hoard of theorists and all their conflicting ideas into the house, let them maul her grandson about, and then argue over the results, would have been disgustingly illogical.

Amanda had insisted on thanking her anyway.

T'Pau did not tell Amanda, or Sarek either, but three weeks later two of the scientists had shown up again. Their names were Sanavalko Lowai and Ellen Steele - a married couple, she a Human, he a Betazoid, and they both specialized in xeno-epigenetics. When they had been granted audience with her, they had asked, not to see Spock or Amanda, but to see her garden.

T'Pau had said yes.

Sanavalko had been impressed, highly emotional and shockingly mentally vocal about the extent of the adaptations the Earth plants had made. The psionic energy poured off of him in waves, greatly disturbing her mental patterns until she had asked him to stop. It had taken her several minutes to remember that Betazoids found emotionalism and self expression to be the height of propriety, and that his mental projections were not intended to be rude or invasive. As Humanly expressive as Ellen was, in comparison to her husband, she was highly subdued.

It had been an odd experience for her, realizing - through a pair of scientists - just how well suited to a Vulcan family Amanda truly was.

Nevertheless, they had impressed her as open-minded and true to their work, and she had discreetly kept in touch with them ever since. It pleased her to know that if Spock ever did need help in these matters, she would have a source that she trusted ready to hand.

So rare a child as Spock deserved to be protected just as much as did his mother.

As such, it had been all the more baffling to her why Sarek, in order to obtain a child, had allowed himself to go against nearly every tradition Vulcans had held sacred for millennia, but when it came to that very son, insisted on such stringent traditionalism. T'Pau had nearly shaken her head at the ill-advised choice of a Reldai's child for Spock's _ko-kugalsu_, but at least Sarek had not been so foolish as to initiate a full betrothal. At home, she greatly suspected, Spock was being subjected to Vulcan culture the way it had been 400 years ago - far less understanding, and much, much more repression.

_Not that we are. . . _permissive_, even now._

Spock had, apparently, taken it all remarkably well, but he was a lone child, distant, and very difficult to know, even through the familial bond.

And, of course, his situation had been made worse by her own mistake. . .

Carefully she gathered all the peach tree clippings into the workbasket, and made her way to the cleverly concealed composting bin on the other side of the quadrangle.

It was never easy to contemplate her own errors, especially during her morning routine.

She had been the obvious choice for her grandson's _Kash-Nov_ ceremony, and she knew that she had been far too overbearing with her emotions for his first time in a full meld. It had not been intentional, it had merely been a logical curiosity mixed with an understandable inexperience with very young minds. He had been nothing of what she had expected, and her surprise had overwhelmed her. He was stronger in his psionic presence than most _adult_ Vulcans she had melded with - the first surprise. The next had been that his emotional composition did not show any adverse signs of mutation from being a hybrid - a valid concern for a child of his type - emotionally he was both Human and Vulcan, fully functional and integrated. Added to this was that he had an _instinctual_ control of many mental impulses that, to her knowledge, _every_ Vulcan mind had to be taught to restrain. As she had examined his _katra_, his personality had impressed her with its almost complete _Vulcan-ness_. . . but she had let him feel her surprise every time she had seen a Human part of him.

It had been a great mistake.

Of course, he had taken her surprise for disapproval - what else was a child to think? - and the meld had left him convinced of his otherness, of his basic inability to_ belong_ with a place or among any people.

It was the kind of mistake that could rule the fate of a life, and was therefore not easily corrected.

He had shown a marked dislike of the mind-meld ever since, and T'Pau certainly did not blame him.

But. . . perhaps Sarek did.

She gave a small sigh, rolling the small boulder back over the opening to the underground composting bin. It had been over ten years, and she had not yet found the right way to make things right with her grandson.

Perhaps there was no right way. Perhaps it merely needed to be done.

She made her way to her most preferred Sitting Stone - a smooth, red-gold seat in the middle of a long rectangle filled with the finest pure-white sand, raked so precisely that the smallest leaf or twig showed like a beacon on the surface of a reflecting pool. It was surrounded by evenly spaced, perfectly conical _ic'tan_ trees, and nine round, smooth red stepping stones took her to the place she often chose for her morning's meditation.

A carefully tended _tir-nuk _grew from a deep recess in one edge of the worn and rounded rock. It must have been too cold in the night, for the tall bloom that had been so fine yesterday, was limp and dying today. She raised her clippers to trim off the dead purple flowers before they fell and sullied the bright white sand, but a nearby sound of feet crunching on gravel gave her pause.

"_Ko'mekh-il_?"

It was Spock's voice.

"_Ko'mekh-il_?"

And just when she had been thinking of him too. She believed the Human phrase was, "speak of the devil. . ."

"Grandmother?"

He was getting closer. She straightened up, swiftly exiting the rectangle of white sand.

"_Ko'mekh-il_?" He rounded a corner and nearly ran into her.

How tall he was becoming. This year, they were of a height.

"_Ko'mekh-il_, I. . ."

She held up a hand, "Stop," she said, using Standard, as was her custom with him, "You may speak, but at the same time you will show me you remember what you have learned." She handed him her clippers, and directed him to a small circle of succulents, pointing to several that needed attention. He gave one curt nod and began.

He broke the hard, dry, dead leaves of the succulents off of the plants, putting them slowly into her workbasket, and his story of T'Pring and shared dreams and unexpected. . . _feelings_. . . emerged from him just as reluctantly.

"I was dreaming, but it was no dream, Grandmother."

She nodded.

He grimaced slightly, "I cannot help but conclude that I have been. . . _used_. Used like a. . . a. . . " he growled a Klingon word he _certainly_ should not have known, "And all without any warning. Or consent."

"You have saved a life, Spokh," she said, "It should take very little for you to consent to such an action."

He paused, considering.

"And how much warning would you have given me if she had been a _V'tosh ka'tur_ or already _riyeht-kashik_? I deserved to be aware from the beginning what might be expected of me. . . in. . . _that_ matter. . ." He was reluctant to speak the words, as well he ought to be.

"The. . . _needs_ of your _ko-kugalsu_ that you describe, they are rare, _sa-fu-al_. A warning was not necessary."

"Did not Surak say, "_Ranau ra-gish kaing ri-gishu_"? He broke the last dried overbloom from the flowering succulent he had been working on, and moved on to the next plant, "Did I not warrant a chance to prepare?"

"You did," she said sternly, "You had ten years."

He stopped trimming the circle of plants, setting the hand clippers carefully off to the side.

"I am not fully Vulcan, _Than-Tha_," he said, so quietly she had to lean forward to hear him, "I have chosen our way of life, but I could not choose what I _am_." He turned to her, imploring, with Amanda's eyes and Sarek's mouth, "I cannot continue in this bond, _Ko'mekh-il._ After such a Time as last night, her bond should call to me. It does not. Indeed, it never has." He stood up, frustrated with himself, "Whose fault that is should not interest me, you are right, but. . . _Than-Tha_. . ."

That was twice he had called her Meld Teacher. Perhaps it was time. . .

She raised her hand and silently asked for permission, which, quite frankly, she did not expect him to give.

He paused a long time, looking at her hand and not at her.

Then, with a very Human sigh, he nodded, and closed his eyes.

His personality was stronger than ever. Like the sun at midday in his brightness, but focused, controlled, like a beam through a prism, and just as colorful. She had touched his mind fully only once before, and this time, like that one, she, even T'Pau herself, felt dazzled.

_Ko'mekh-il. . ._ For a moment his mind wavered and shrank before her. _Have I offended you?_

It was a sacrilege to see her grandson's iridescence reduced by fear.

_No Spokh._ She said it steadily. _I had merely forgotten how striking you are._

His mind fumbled for words, but only managed to project an image of his eyes, six years old, looking at her with a very Human expression of crushed despair.

His memory of the last time she had touched his mind.

Her heart sank within her.

_I was wrong._

The words did not stick in her mind as she had feared they would. She said them clearly and openly.

_Wrong?_

_Yes. Wrong to let you think you fared so poorly in my eyes._

Then she showed him how surprised she had been at him - not at his failure, but at his strength, his beauty, his life. His. . . _unexpected_ life.

_I never thought one such as you would ever exist, sa-fu-al_.

_Then I am. . . unique?_

_Yes._

His mind shrugged, as though this was just a bad as he had thought.

_Child, you are not incapable of belonging._

_That I doubt._

_Show me why._

There was a great crimson-scented whirl of images from him - not just of bullies and beatings and strange epithets and insults - but also of the quiet times, when he only felt at home when he was alone, and neither his mother nor his father mattered as much as a cheap novel that could take him out of himself for a while, or the moments when he stood in the middle of a crowd of people, and did not seem to be of them, instead feeling like he was looking at them all from the wrong end of a telescope.

_I will always be an alien, Ko'mekh-il. No matter who I am with, or where I am. I have no place._

The measured drumbeats of her own mind quietened for a moment as a choice was suddenly laid in front of her, then they strengthened as she made that choice, assured that it was the right one.

_I once knew a woman who felt as you do, my grandson. She was certain she would never find her place in this universe, never belong to or with anyone, and never, never find peace. She even contemplated going to Gol, but she was never of that type, and knew it would not suit her in the least. And then a great opportunity came to her, which would have meant fame, and honor, and tremendous trust placed in her, but it also would have meant leaving her home, her family. . . all her bonds would have been stretched to their limits. She would have been even more alone than before._

_And so she turned down that great opportunity, and poured herself into her family, making them a greater honor than any outsider could ever bestow._

It was many seconds before it dawned on him that she had just shared with him a secret she had shared with no one - not even Skon had known why she had refused the invitation to the Federation Council.

_She did not find her place, she made her own place._

The colored light of his mind skittered and twisted as he listened.

_And that was enough. Or it was until a young Human woman came and showed her what she had been missing. The day this Human came into her life, she opened up this woman's universe. All of a sudden, where the world had been dull and lonesome, it was bright and clean, full, and unexpected._

She showed him just how greatly both his and Amanda's presence had enriched the familial bond.

_She knows now that life is not about honor, or opportunities, or a family name. It is about being content. In your own place._

She showed him how she saw him, reflecting the colored light of his _katra_ back to him, and all around, lighting up the meld.

_The universe is vast, Spokh. Your life is long. You will find your place, or make it. It is assured._

He said nothing. But he opened his eyes.

She gently broke the meld.

He inhaled softly, "Fascinating."

Her eyes glittered. "Indeed."

_"Ko'mekh-il_," he said, slowly, "I. . . I have been. . . afraid of you. . . for far too long." He bent and picked up her hand-clippers, giving them back to her, "I was also wrong."

She took the clippers, letting her eyebrows twitch a little, "Surak also says - "It is in the time of one's youth that mistakes are the easiest mended."

"Yes."

His voice was determined, and a little sad.

"I believe I will try. . . a proactive approach to T'Pring," he looked at her for approval.

"Continue," was all she said.

"We cannot undo ten years of. . . silence. . . but we can each be what the other needs _now_. Or at least, I can."

"That is all one can change, _Spokh-kam_."

He blinked. She only very rarely used any terms of endearment.

"May I have access to the clan's _kal'i'farr _caves once every two seasons?"

She nodded slowly, "That is an acceptable idea."

"She may need me again. And proximity is. . . sometimes ideal. . . for the growth of. . . of. . . _affection_."

"It will be done, _sa-fu-al_."

Still he stood there, his posture unrelentingly straight and uncomfortable.

"Now, Spokh," she admonished, "Stop pestering a tired old woman and bring her some tea." Her voice was hard, and it took him a moment before he saw the gleam in her eyes.

He blinked, and finally held himself with greater ease.

"Yes, Grandmother," he said, and left.

When he returned with the tea, they sat and drank it together.

* * *

=/\=

* * *

_Naric_ - Vulcan pomegranates, or the tree/shrub that produces them

_Glat-kov_ - Sign-stone; a landmark used to mark the boundaries of a person's or clan's property

_Yon-savas_ - Literally "fire fruit"; a strongly flavored yellow to red-colored vegetable; Vulcan chili peppers

_Mevak_ - A hollow-stemmed reed-like plant, used in Vulcan wickerwork

_Plomeek_ - A type of root vegetable from the Nightshade family; often made into a soup

_Ic'tan_ - Coniferous tree, related to pine or fir

_Sher'khah_ - The tallest tree species on Vulcan. Its wood is the straightest grained wood available on-planet. It is often used in the construction of ka'athyras.

_Induka_ - A tree with red leaves found near an oasis and water

_Spokh _- Name of an ancient relative/companion of Surak, meaning "Bringer of Peace"; proper phonetic spelling of "Spock".

_Ko-kugalsu_ - Fiancee; A woman to whom a man is engaged to be married

_Tir-nuk_ - A small succulent tree, much like an Earth ajuga; often found in the desert

_Ko'mekh-il_ - Grandmother; the mother of one's father or mother

_**Sa-fu-al**_ - Grandson; the male child of one's children; a male descendant

_V'tosh ka'tur_ - Literally "Vulcans without logic". They do not reject Surak's teachings, but disagree with the elders about how they should be interpreted.

_Riyeht-kashik_ - Insane; not-right-minded; mentally unstable

_**Ranau ra-gish kaing ri-gishu**_ - "Prepare for what is expected equally with what is unexpected." (Analect of Surak)

_-kam_ - Denotes affection

_Kal'i'farr_ - Marriage; the legal union of a man and woman as husband and wife; the state of being married; wedlock

***Cultural Note -** On Vulcan, it is traditional for guests to cook at least one meal for their hosts. Especially on important occasions, only the designated chefs or the guests may cook the meals. For Amanda to have insisted upon doing any cooking on a day she herself had declared important would have branded her a guest, not a member of the family.


	7. Chapter Six

**Warning** - This chapter earns its T rating, folks. If you're very young, or very easily triggered, please go read something else.

* * *

_"Don't try to be a great man, just be a man. And let history make its own judgments" _

_- Zefram Cochrane_

_"What is necessary for your mate is necessary for you."_

_- Analect of Surak_

* * *

**Chapter Six**

_Logic is often difficult. It is this that makes it worth doing._

For the thirty-second time in the past four hours, Sarek repressed a sigh.

_To experience our emotions is natural._

The Orion Trade Ambassador had been squabbling over irrelevant minutia in the wording of the trade agreement for over three of those hours. Sarek was not surprised at this - offering loud complaints at a thing that was entirely acceptable was the Orion way of being respectful - but, in this instance, there was only so much. . . _politeness_. . . he felt inclined to take.

_To acknowledge our emotions is commendable._

It was taking all of Sarek's diplomatic training, Vulcan calm, and his mental connection with Amanda to keep from using a _to'tsu'k'hy_ on the Ambassador, dropping him harmlessly to the floor, and_ closing his mouth_.

_To express our emotions is illogical._

If he did so, however, the Orion government would no doubt feel it necessary to send a new Ambassador to re-negotiate, and the trade agreement would not be completed in time for his next offworld assignment.

_To control our emotions is essential._

In Sarek's mind, when it came to maintaining a calm, logical outlook, it was the Ambassadors who had the most difficult time of anyone, anywhere.

_The most assured things in the universe are death, diversity, and stupidity._

The Trade Ambassador was now complaining very loudly that the last paragraph of the agreement had fourteen more words in it than the opening paragraph, and apparently the number fourteen held some. . . _insulting_. . . significance in Orion culture.

_Diversity is desirable._

Orion _hektan_ spice, while a strong euphoric to Orions, and a deadly psychotropic to Humans, was a useful anticoagulant to Vulcans, and considering the _extreme_ unlikelihood of the Federation making the substance generally legal, it made great sense for Vulcan to be the main trade partner with Orion when it came to the drug.

_Individuality is not a crime._

This did not mean Sarek had to like negotiating for it, or with _this_ Trade Ambassador specifically.

_As far as depends on you, live peaceably with all._

Even quoting the analects of Surak to himself was losing its efficacy.

He deftly interrupted and once again reminded the man that any trade agreement, no matter how poorly worded, that assured his planet exclusive rights to trade a highly restricted substance for Vulcan brandy, wine, _k'vass_, beer, and several other specialty items, was a privilege only rarely extended to any planet or peoples.

At last, the copper-patina-green skinned gentleman decided he had complained enough, and spat on the floor, signalling the end of negotiations.

Sarek, ignoring his office's sanitation needs for the moment, offered the other man a fingerprint scanner, then quickly attached both his own and the other man's identifying marks on the document, and logged the agreement as complete.

_All things have their end._

The Orion even had the audacity to make the _ta'al_ as he left.

After he had gone, Sarek called for a cleaning team, closed his eyes, and allowed himself a sigh of relief.

It never ceased to amaze him that Orion had developed such a. . . one might delicately call it a _unique_ sense of propriety, that even their trained diplomats could very nearly manage to upset a Vulcan.

_Are you better now, my dear?_

Amanda had been listening in on the last two hours of his ordeal, allowing him to use her Human sense of humor to help him endure the Orion's extreme illogic.

_I believe so, _adun'a_._

_Good._

Her mind sparkled through his _katra_, like that festive drink he was sometimes obliged to partake in. . . what was it?

_Champagne, love._

Ah yes.

_Now, hurry home for dinner, dear, I've made your favorite._

_Amanda, I do not have favorites._

She huffed, even in her mind, _Fine. I have made your __**most preferred**__ meal of spicy fried _de-th'ek _with my homemade _vash g'ralth_ salad. _She grinned triumphantly at him through the bond. _There's even a _pla-savas _tart for dessert. _

Sarek found himself amused at how she would use the Vulcan words when speaking mentally to him, but the instinctive words and images in her own mind were still "falafel", "piccalilli", and "blueberry pie".

_So sue me, I'm still Human._

_To take you to court over a part of your mentality that is not only entirely harmless, but that I also find greatly acceptable, would be the height of illogic,_ ashal-veh.

_Just come __**home**__._

Her thoughts were very insistent, and Sarek found he was entirely unwilling to disobey.

He sent her a feeling of _agreement_, but no more words, and she retreated back down the bond somewhat, allowing him to focus on his surroundings.

The cleaning team had finished some minutes ago. He removed his outer robes, hanging them up in the small dressing-closet in his office, and putting on his riding leathers and safety helmet. Almost immediately he pulled off the helmet - it irritated his ears. He would take extra care while flying, but today he _could not_ endure any more irritation.

Then he walked speedily down to the Embassy's garage and retrieved his hoverbike, not acknowledging his aides as he left the office, or even paying the smallest attention to the garage attendant.

He spared a moment to look down the bond he shared with Amanda, making sure she was still there, waiting for him.

Waiting _only_ for him. . .

His Time was coming. They both knew it. His need for an increasing amount of emotional support showed it, as did his unusual dislike of males anywhere within sight of Amanda, and his insistence that she remain constantly close to him through the bond. The only question was when. . . and it could be anytime now. Perhaps weeks, but more likely days, and even, perhaps, hours. This uncertainty, the disorder of not knowing, was the most difficult part.

For anything else, he could wait patiently. For this, the waiting was almost worse than the reality.

Almost.

As he began to pilot the hoverbike homeward, his thoughts turned, inexplicably, to Spock.

While Amanda had been in labor, she had peremptorily sent him away, for she said his pacing and constant worry got on her nerves. Sarek had not contradicted her, but left only reluctantly, and to this day could not remember where he had gone. Once all was safely over, he felt the familial bond thrum with a new life, and Amanda called to him as insistently as she had sent him away.

That day, as he had watched her gently open the points of the child's still-furled ears, he had felt two things - an increased thankfulness and respect of his wife, and an immense, unstoppable, frightening, _storm_ of love for his son. He had never experienced anything like it, before or since, and he was still, nearly twenty years later, attempting to make sense of even the shallowest of those feelings.

What was frustrating, or rather baffling, was that Amanda had instinctively understood the whole vortex of those emotions, and seemingly had no difficulty making room in her own mind for them, and communicating their presence to Spock, refracting and bending the turmoil of such huge feelings into something livable, breathable, and feeding them to their son with all the wisdom of motherhood.

For Amanda, this storm of feeling was such a dynamic experience, while all Sarek could do was statically wonder and watch. True, she did it all in a perfectly Human way, not touching the very depths of being the way a Vulcan could, but that was, in essence, the point. He _could_, so why didn't he?

With Spock, even more than with Amanda, Sarek realized, he felt a love so deep it defied expression, shattered even acknowledgement, and, most importantly, frightened Sarek to his marrow.

To touch that feeling - to live in it, to feel it thoroughly. . . it would either give him immortality or make him instantly insane. Was this feeling a God? Or a Devil? He didn't know, and could not experiment, leaving Spock in the unlikely position of having to be the instigator of the parent-child bond.

This great, eternal feeling had left Sarek helpless, and Spock in a most difficult state of flux.

Spock, of course, knew none of this, could not, and lived apart from him, independent in mind and spirit, not starved of Sarek's attention, but in all ways his own person, never reaching towards his father, from fear or indifference Sarek was never sure.

Amanda said it was neither - his son merely knew some things like a Human would, and so, he _knew_ his father did not desire _kash-nov_ or a bond beyond the familial level with him.

It did not matter how many times he told his wife this was illogical, she would only state that Humans _were_ illogical, that they _needed_ to be, and that _some_ aspects of Vulcan social mores were _stupid_.

He had given up arguing with her, seeing that she was right.

_. . . Possibly. . . _

If Spock had grown up unsure of his father's regard, then it was no more the fault of his son's part-Human understanding than it was his half-Vulcan soul.

And, naturally, Sarek's own full-Vulcan, highly repressed but deeply, intensely, entirely, _infuriatingly_ emotional landscape wasn't helping either. Amanda _knew_ that.

He gripped the steering controls tighter as he neared the border of S'chn T'gai lands.

He had not had this trouble with Sybok and T'Rea. The former High Priestess of Gol had not been _able_ to love him, or their son, and thus had not inspired love in return. When Sybok had come to him, only one year old, his mental control had been that of an adolescent, demanding nothing from his father, inspiring only great respect, and very little paternal reciprocity.

He had loved Sybok, and still did as a Vulcan can love, but there was never that huge, inexplicable adoration he had for Spock.

Sarek often wondered what would have happened to his firstborn if T'Rea had lived.

But she had died suddenly, quickly, senselessly, just when Sybok had reached an age to be able to remember her, and as he had grown up he had been unable to reconcile the illogic of it, and had eventually disappeared into the Vulcan netherworld of the _V'tosh ka'tur._

Fourteen years ago, finally, Sarek had been obliged to disown his very flesh and blood. He would _not_ have that happen again. Spock would have every Vulcan advantage, would be allowed to see all that logic and experience could teach, would be instilled with the contentment of peace.

Spock would be a Vulcan _with_ logic - he would not be thrown out of society, or named unworthy of his family's titles.

His son would see reason, eventually. He _would_ reach to him, one day, and in this, like in most things, Sarek was content to wait.

In the meantime, there was Amanda. He closed himself off, for the time being, from all emotional concerns and imbalances, focusing rather on the prospect of a very well cooked meal after a long and trying day.

He skillfully set down the hoverbike on the large landing pad outside the stone walls of their large estate. He dismounted swiftly, striding with purpose through the gates of his home. The attendants would care for his vehicle.

Amanda was inside, and he imagined he could smell the hot _de-th'ek_ from here.

* * *

As she set the table, Amanda contemplated her husband. She had separated herself only slightly from his consciousness; she could still feel his thoughts, and they were far more tumultuous thoughts than usual.

She put a jug of cooled spice-tea in the center of the table, and a covered dish on each corner.

He was thinking of her. . . _And Spock_. . . with much greater regularity these days. His emotional state had gone from ubiquitous calm to a jagged-edged tolerance. For the past week, she dared not even give cordial greetings to the gardener, or to any of Sarek's aides that happened to see her when they visited him at home. He had been _impatient_ with Spock for the last three days.

She knew, of course, what these things foreboded, and for the first time, Spock was old enough to know too. She was thankful for her son's bond with T'Pring for this at least; any son who spent time with his intended at the clan's _kal'i'farr_ caves every two seasons, did not have to have his father's coming indignity hidden from him any more. She spared a moment . . . _And more than just a moment_. . . wondering what, exactly, Spock and T'Pring. . .

But no. She firmly told herself that there were things a mother did not need to know.

Dinner was completely ready, so she took a quick minute to stow some fresh bread and fruit down in the special cellar room she and Sarek only used once every seven years.

It would be the third time she had occasion to prepare it, their first Time, of course, having been in the clan's _kal'i'farr_ caves some thirty kilometers away. After that time, she had suggested a discreet place of their own, away from clan notice - and away from tradition, for that matter. She had argued that Sarek could afford a private underground room - every Vulcan home of any size at all had a cellar anyway - and if they designed the room themselves, they would certainly be more comfortable than they had been in an unfinished, albeit well appointed, natural cave.

She had not convinced Sarek until she had made a plea for her safety. _Then_ he had relented, swiftly, backing the project so intently that it was nearly impossible to tell he had ever resisted it.

It was just as well, she thought, that Sarek would be sequestered down here soon, as Spock had told her he was probably going to need the caves himself within a few days, and Sarek never liked it when Spock disappeared for any reason, but when _this_ was the reason, Sarek was most inconsistently upset.

She opened the door and confidently ordered the lights on. A small sun-chimney skylight provided soft lighting for the main room, but the refresher unit where she was headed had an artificial light in it. She walked past the only thing in the main room - a bed. _It_ at least was traditional - a huge rounded cushion affair, with many pillows arranged upon it. She smiled, remembering Sarek's sheepish look when he had been obliged to re-purchase most of those pillows. His last Time had got a bit. . . destructive. She had been doubly glad they were here, and not in a room made of stone. Here there was literally nothing you could fall against. . . or be thrown against. . . that would crack your head open. All the walls and the floor were softened with heavy padding covered with a tear-proof, stain-proof canvas, and the refresher unit had no door. It had no pointed corners or hard surfaces either - the tub, toilet and sink were all rounded things, all made of cushioned vinyl, with the water spouts recessed into their inner surfaces. The shower-head was flush against the ceiling. The refrigeration unit was sunk into one wall, a small cupboard-like affair, with a padded door.

She had put a dozen water bottles in it when she had aired and dusted the room two days ago, in anticipation, but had not yet stocked it with fresh food.

She felt ripples through the bond as he sensed she was_ in this room_. He had just landed outside their home. At the moment, he just wanted her cooking, but soon. . .

Quickly, she put the fruit and bread in the stasis unit, and swept upstairs.

Spock was waiting for her near the dinner table, a PADD in his hand.

"For you, Professor," he said, lightly, bowing to her.

She laughed and took his latest essay, kissing him lightly on the top of his head. Kisses on his hair were one of her greatest discoveries. There was no skin contact, so she would not be disturbing him telepathically, and she still got to use the Human caress.

"So, what is this one about, boy-of-mine?"

"The effects of interstellar radiation on warp drive efficiency."

"Hmm. I make no promises on the technical jargon. . ."

"That will not be necessary," his eyes relaxed into the expression she knew meant he was placidly happy, "But who else can say they have had all their published essays personally edited by the the first Human woman to win the Nobel Prize for literature since Ayla Kahwaji?"

"No one else, _sa-fu_."

"And not many Vulcans have the benefit of Human intuition, either," said Sarek, entering the room suddenly, "I am going to wash before end-meal." He left - just as suddenly.

She saw Spock hold back a sigh. It was unlikely that anyone outside the three of them would have been able to discern the sarcasm in Sarek's words, but Spock and he had been having a weeks-long discussion concerning the benefits and disadvantages of pure facts in instructional literature, versus imaginative generalization. Spock, unsurprisingly, was making a very adept case for imagination, while Sarek uncompromisingly stood for facts, and facts alone.

It would have been an excellent, encouraging thing for her to witness, except that, as usual, Sarek had pushed the issue to the point that Spock could hardly say _anything_ without his father assuming he was speaking of their debate.

She smiled at her son, and tapped the PADD. "Sit down, Spock-_kam_, and I'll take a quick look at this before he gets back."

She sat down at the dinner table herself, skimming and marking his work, typing short comments here and there, all the while thinking of her two men, so different, and yet so the same. . .

It did not mystify her why Sarek dealt so hardly with their son, and also, paradoxically, thought about him with such intensity and regularity. She had, after all, practically raised Sybok as well, and it had hurt her just as much as it had hurt Sarek when his eldest had left peaceful civilization for the uncertainty and danger of the lawless _V'tosh ka'tur_. As much as Sarek had blamed himself, she too had felt she had failed. Sybok had needed love, and a lot of it after a Reldai-ruled babyhood, and she had never felt confident that she had given her utmost to the boy. But she had tried. Sarek, she knew, felt that he had not even done that much.

For her, Spock was, to put it simply, _another_ son. But for Sarek, he was a chance for redemption. Spock was his second chance - he intended to do everything perfectly by the book this time. And there was no-one like a Vulcan when it came to doing things by the book.

And as for Spock, well. . . it was never easy to obtain a second chance, but - and didn't she know it! - it was even more harrowing to _be_ a second chance.

Sarek had never called T'Rea his wife, never thought of her that way, but Amanda knew that she herself was also his second chance, not to mention his savior - and in a far more concrete way than Spock would ever be to his father.

_Thank heavens._

But it seemed to _hurt_ Sarek to let Spock simply be his own person. Sometimes she _did_ wonder why her husband had never initiated a mind-meld with their son. It _was_ the logical thing to do - or at least suggest.

She thought Spock usually handled the situation with a grace and dignity that reminded her, not of Sarek or herself, but oddly of T'Pau.

_This boy is a prince. Just like his father. . ._

_I am not a prince, Amanda._

Sarek re-entered the dining room just then, sat down without a word, and started to eat his dinner.

_You are __**my**__ Alien Prince._

_That is an illogical nickname_, ashayam.

She smiled demurely, serving Spock some _vash g'ralth_.

_And __**that **__is a tautology, husband. Nicknames are illogical by definition._

He sighed through the bond, _Why did I choose to marry an English professor?_

_Because it's practically the same as being a Vulcan Ambassador - we're intelligent, precise, well respected, and our job demands that we know how to read past meandering bullshit._

Sarek almost dropped his fork.

_Not to mention you are diplomatic._

The sarcasm in his mental voice was entirely delicious.

_That's right. No one __**ever **__mentions an English professor's diplomacy._

_Indeed._

Oh, his Time was close. He was _grinning_ at her through the bond. For a few minutes she calculated how much food she still needed to put down in the cellar room, but stopped when Sarek caught her at it, and _growled_ mentally at her. He did not like to be reminded of that place - or rather, he liked it _too much_.

She went back to editing Spock's article while she ate, observing silence during the meal as tradition demanded, but insisting on _some_ form of entertainment beyond the food. He was getting much better at prose, too - she even understood a good amount of his discourse on warp coolant formulae - which was very good, since just a year ago he could barely keep her attention even when he wrote about something she understood well, like vegetable gardening, or the sentence structure employed in Federation Standard, or the peccadilloes of Vulcan males. . .

That last thought had not come from her. Sarek was poking her through the bond, and laughing. . . laughing _out loud_. . .

Spock looked up just as she did, startled at the unfamiliar sound coming from his father.

"_Sa-mekh_," he said, slowly, "I meant to tell you before end-meal, but I must tell you now."

Sarek sobered at once, and she felt him clamp down on what remained of his control, "Yes?"

"I will be gone for at least five days this week. . ."

"No!" Sarek cut him off, "Always you are leaving here, disappearing to who knows where! It must stop, it will stop. NO!" He picked up his still full glass and threw it, not at Spock, but against the stone tile floor where it shattered impressively.

Amanda looked at her son, reaching through her bond with him, and he read her eyes and understood.

Spock picked up the PADD with his article in it and left the room, not looking back.

Sarek watched him go and then smashed a plate in rampant frustration.

She sat there, with the uncertainty of beginnings upon her. His onset was always difficult, for he each time he was triggered by something different. She was unsure, at this exact moment, precisely what she needed to do.

He drove a fork so violently into the surface of the table it remained standing there, a testament to Vulcan strength.

This was _plak-tau_. You had to play dirty, or you didn't play at all. She stood, concentrated her will on him, and thought about her high school crush. Thought _hard_.

_He was tall, handsome and __**Human**__, Sarek. . ._

He paused in his destruction of the tableware, his posture suddenly that of a predator who has scented his prey.

_He had __**blond**__ hair. . . it curled over his __**round **__ears. He was gorgeous, _adun_._

The mostly empty jug of tea flew across the room, and exploded into a million ironblood-red shards of ceramic.

Then, he whirled, and stalked over to her, wrapping his fingers around her chin, compelling her to look at him.

"You. . ." his voice caught, "Will _not_ think of him. . ."

She met his eyes defiantly.

_What are you going to do about it, husband?_

He dragged her mouth to his for a soul-melting kiss, running one hand down the length of her body in such a way that her mind blanked entirely. When he pulled back, she was dizzy, and quite speechless.

_**That **__is what I am going to do, wife._

He moved towards her again, one hand coming up to begin a meld, but she quickly pushed him away.

"Go downstairs, Sarek."

His face crumpled, like a kicked puppy. "Amanda. . ." he breathed, "You. . . why?"

She put her foot down, "Sarek. Go. Downstairs." She pointed to the cellar door, "I'll be there in _one_ minute, I promise."

He came to himself, briefly, and looked around, clearly appalled at the mess, not to mention his own mental disarray. He looked at his hands, "Yes. Yes, of course, I. . . I apologize, Amanda, I. . ." his eyes began streaming with tears he could not stop, and with a choking sob of disgust, he almost ran to the cellar door, not looking back once.

As soon as the door was closed, she sprinted to their room, pulling off her heavy everyday robes as she went. Then she swiftly pulled on a nightgown, and messaged the servants to clean up the dining room and then leave the house. She also sent out a prearranged message cancelling all his appointments for a week, and one final message, to T'Pau, consisting of one single sentence - "It is Time." She would understand, and would take care of any loose ends that cropped up.

Amanda was out of time. The bond had been _wailing_ at her for the last five minutes.

_You said __**one **__minute, _ashayam_. __**One**__ minute. . ._

_I'm coming. . ._

_You __**promised**__. . ._

His mind trailed off into a quickly disintegrating stream of nonsense.

She went back through the kitchen, filling her arms with whatever food she could grab. Then she darted downstairs, getting out of sight just in time before the servants arrived and saw her, or Sarek noticed them through her bond. Two of them were male, and if he sensed them near her, he _would_ try to kill them.

_I'm coming, love. . ._

_No. . . no, do not come. . ._

_Sarek. . ._

_You are right to abandon me, _ashal-veh._ I am a wretch. Do not come near me._

She sighed, vexed, and walked through the cellar-room door, voice-locking it behind her. It would not open again until she ordered it to.

She saw him then, curled up against one corner of the bed, crying into one of the pillows

Quickly, she went to the refresher room, and dumped the food she was carrying into the stasis unit.

Then she walked slowly over to him, stood in front of his pathetic, grovelling form, and reached out to stroke his hair.

As soon as she touched him, he bounded forward and clasped her around her knees.

_Stay, please stay, my darling wife. . . I . . ._ He nuzzled against her legs,_ How, __how __can you want me, how can you stand the sight of me? _He cried out as if in pain, and crawled away from her. _Go! I am unforgivable. . ._

He always started off like this. He would work himself into such a state, he'd get convinced she was leaving him. He would spend hours weeping, ordering her to leave, leave and let him die, begging her to stay, stay and forgive him.

She wondered sometimes if he had been like this with T'Rea, or if he only reacted to her like this because he remembered the first time she had tried to save him.

He _had_ tried to explain his Time to her before they married. He was nowhere near socially inept enough to expect her to marry him before she knew _exactly_ what she was letting herself in for. But even though a meld, his imagery was uniquely Vulcan, and she had barely been able to understand him. The closest he had ever come to describing it in a way she comprehended had been that he would experience an overflow, an explosion of _self_ that would not, could not be controlled or denied. His emotions would shake free of their moorings, and pour from him, into her. He would be like a geyser, boiling and dangerous. The only way for her to keep her mind safe would be to retreat, take her ego and run, as it were, and hide in the depths of her own mind until it was all over. Apparently Vulcan women did this naturally, but the only image she could clearly see from him was that her mind must become like a dry well, deep and open, or he would overwhelm her, body and soul, damage her, even _kill_ her. He did _not_ want that - that was very clear - but it was about the only thing that was.

Still, they had tried it that way - and the first day of his first Time with her he had nearly scrambled her brain into jelly.

She did _not_ like remembering that day. . .

Then, while he had wept in despair, huddling in a corner and refusing to touch her lest he hurt her more, she had had an idea. It had been a faint idea, fuzzy, and just barely doable, but instead of trying to make her mind stay solid and run away, she formed her mind into an open mesh, and stood her ground. Even now it sounded odd to her, and she had never tried to explain it to anyone, not even T'Pau. She'd had to try three times before she felt competent enough to go to him, but it had worked. When she finally convinced him to meld with her again, she became a sieve, letting the flood of him pass _through_ her, harmlessly, to dissipate into the ether of memory. He had laughed with the pure joy of relief, both sorrowful and delighted tears mingling on his face, his mind flowing into hers, her mind catching only the necessary fragments of the fleeting, gemlike images that were what he was thinking, what he needed, what he _wanted_.

Ever since, she had always been able to satisfy him, whether it was his Time or not.

She knelt on the floor with him now, pulling one of his hands to her face, kissing his palm, nibbling lightly on his fingertips, then pushing his fingers towards the places on her cheek that would make their minds into one.

He subtly adjusted his fingers, and with a shout he gave her all his shame, all his guilt, every bit of his fear and sorrow. For a brief moment it was more than even her Catholic father and Jewish mother combined would ever have believed _any_ one person could feel, and then her mind became a wide sheet of steel gossamer, letting him through, but not bending, not retreating, only steadfastly taking what he needed to give her, and catching several shards of his thoughts so she could respond, do what he needed, and save his life.

At this moment, he desperately wanted her to kiss him.

So she did.

* * *

Spock left his parents at the dinner table that evening, knowing from the look in his mother's eyes that he would be _expected_ to leave the house now, that his father would probably not remember his outburst, and that Spock's absence from home and presence at the _kal'i'farr_ caves would for once, mercifully, not be commented on.

A change of clothes, and a donning of his survival pack and a riding helmet later, he was speeding across the desert, his black hoverbike gleaming in the long rays of the late-afternoon sun.

T'Pring had messaged him two days ago, curtly stating that she would be at the caves on this day, at evening. She would stay there for three to five days. That was all the message had said.

She did not ask him to come to her, did not ask him to bring anything or to prepare for anything beyond their normal meditation sessions together.

At the moment, he was unsure if this encouraged him or made him apprehensive.

They had been meeting at his family's _kal'i'farr_ caves for nearly three years now - this would be their fifth time. . . well, her _sixth_ Time. . .

The first three instances they had met had come at irregular intervals, her cycle needing to adjust to the new geographical and hormonal cues found at her father's estate. Distancing herself from Gol had clearly been a difficult choice for her, with difficult consequences.

Each of those times he had sat next to her, body and soul, discovering that pushing his mind between her and the dangerous wall of her _katra_ when she moved too deep in her meditation, and performing the _ozh-esta_ when she needed it, was quite enough to keep her sane though the meditations that satisfied her Time. But every time she had accepted his presence and attentions, she seemed. . . to indefinably _change_.

The first three times had been exploratory, irregular, non-representative of her true nature, nor of his, he supposed, for the last time they had met, their fourth time in the caves, she had demanded a full meld, not just the touch of skin through the finger-embrace. At the first light touch of his mind, she had pulled his thoughts into hers, showing him the cavern her mind became while she was in this state, asking, _pleading_ that he fill the space with his own mind, that he ease the loneliness, the despair, the heartache she did not understand. . .

He had attempted to do so, with some measure of success, but when he had broken the meld, they were on the floor, her asleep against him, all their arms and legs entwined. . .

It had disturbed him, because he could not remember moving into that position.

When she had awoken she had not mentioned it. But from that day, something had _certainly_ changed.

He would have liked to ask, but the bond never called to him. _She_ never called to him, save twice a year, when all she said was the barest of logical things, like he was a _kafeh_, or mere tool, his goings and comings beneath her notice. Neither his own needs, nor his ingrained respect would allow him to break the barrier between them.

_My fear will not let me do so either._

She had built the wall of separation. She would have to be the one to tear it down.

He flew through the standing stones that marked the entrance to the _spathel_ called _Gu-vah-baet_. It reminded him of the ancient city of Petra he and his mother had gone to see the last time his father had been stationed on Earth.

The red stones, the formality.

_The mystery._

He reached out empathically, feeling the warm living rock, the cool spots of life that were the sparse plants that lived out here, and _there_, one smooth, cold, darkly burnished obsidian stone, waiting inside the caves for him.

Her mood was very black, the skin of her mind shiveringly cold, yet he felt sure, somehow, that it was all in protection of one place upon her soul that, if touched, would shatter her into glittering shards of glass.

He landed his hoverbike, and took off his helmet, but paused before entering the caves.

_This is nothing but plak-tauw. You have seen it before._

It was natural, and regular. They had learned how to deal with it. They _would_ deal with it, as they had done before.

No, he was not nervous in the least.

Not at all.

* * *

T'Pring had packed her small bag with a conviction born of long experience.

_It has only been three years._

But it was a great deal more experience than she had been afforded that first Time.

_He is no longer a child with no idea what to do._

Still, a hard stone of uncertainty had settled in her belly. She had, for several Times now, felt an _escalation_. She was uncertain what it meant, or if his proximity during her Times had anything to do with it.

She shouldered her bag and began to walk the many kilometers to his family's caves. She had read in some ancient text that exercise beforehand could lessen the effect of the Fever. It was an old tale, told now only by the oldest and most superstitious among Vulcans, but it was a simple thing to try, and she was willing to try nearly anything. It would take her hours, but the sun was just up, and she had arranged to meet him that evening.

The hardest thing was knowing what to say to him.

She doubted highly if their previous routine would be enough this time. But if she changed their routine, he might not come.

Best to be brief, and logical.

And best to shield herself thickly from his warm, enticing otherness. Every time she had tasted the Human in him, she was fascinated. He was so different, she could lose herself in the coruscating colors of him. But every time, when she no longer needed him, the bond would close, and she was either too frightened or too stubborn to force it back open.

Oh, how she wished to _know_ him; how she desired to _understand_ the mind that had lived inside her own for over thirteen years now.

It was highly confusing, wanting someone to want you for yourself, but not being entirely certain that you wanted them in return.

Perhaps. . . perhaps, this Time would join them fully, finally moving the bond nearer to the marriage-places on their _katras_.

She would not. . . object. . . to such a thing. He was interesting, and she needed him.

She could live without _want_.

The path that circled Shi'Kahr was narrow, and thickly laid with sand, but it was smooth, and so constructed as to keep travelers on it walking in the shade for most of the day.

She would have liked to think some more as she walked, but her Time was on her, and her thoughts kept slipping away, down the sinkhole of her mind. Soon, soon now her self would retreat, and only his hand could draw her back.

The day was hotter than usual for the season, but still she shivered, from fear or anticipation she did not know.

She reached the caves in late afternoon, going in to wash herself before he arrived.

_If he arrives. . ._

The caves were very well appointed, a tribute to his ancient name. A natural fountain sprang up in the large alcove allotted for the refresher unit. The light was natural - streaming through some cunningly hidden fissures in the rock.

These caves. . . lived. They thrummed and pulsed with a hundred generations of memories so powerful it nearly became a compulsion to add your own memories to them.

She lit the antique stone-filigree firepot and arranged herself before it, marshaling her sprawling mind into one place within her, compacting her _self_ into a solid thing she could control, or try to, at the least.

It took all the hours she had left before he came, but she managed to construct a shield around herself, hard and cold, so that he might not pierce her heart with his indifference.

She could feel the furnace of her fever pressing against the shield from the inside, but as it was not yet a danger to her, she ignored it.

The flame in the firepot flickered, the hot wind of early evening keening through the cave.

She felt him when he arrived, and clamped down on herself, clawing to control the sudden desperate urge to run to him, begging for his hands, his mouth, his skin to touch her.

_What are these thoughts? . . . He will give me the _ozh-esta_, and _kash-nov _if I ask him._

She quelled her roiling stomach as he sat down next to her.

Slowly, as if in a dream, his fingers wrapped around hers, and his bright, warm mind eased close to the artificial coldness of her own.

Her trance claimed her then, and so she knew not what uncouth hour of the night it was when the heat behind her shield became unbearable, exploding with a force she had never felt before, her mind plummeting away, but her desire. . . oh yes, _that_ was what it was. . . her _need_ became enough for a dozen of her.

"Spokhhhh," she purred, unable to keep the animal lust out of her voice, "_Bat'h'pak!_ I need you. . ."

Before either of them could stop her, she buried her teeth in his neck.

* * *

Spock _had_ thought the first night was going well. . .

He had sat down in front of the one _asenoi_, sharing it with her as they would soon share their meditations, and he had joined their fingers in the caress of _t'hy'la_. She spoke not a word to him, but the cold hardness of her mind warmed a trifle as his consciousness flowed to sit next to hers.

Their meditation was soothing, the harmony of the caves bringing them to a stable deep trance far quicker than any other place could, and keeping them there much more simply than any other method.

He was not exactly sure of the time when something forced him up from this comfortable rest, but the scent on the air told of night, and the gentle curl of the wind spoke of the sunrise very soon.

Her mind was. . . _moving_. . . the stone of her consciousness was pulling away from his, but she was not breaking, she was _melting_. The protective ice with which she had shielded herself disappeared in an explosion of steam and heat.

Suddenly she needed more than from him than she ever had before, and she marked his neck before plundering his mouth and caressing his hands, stoking the new, unexpected fire inside her.

Before the second day dawned, she demanded he meld with her, her nails bloodying his face and scalp.

He had complied, but was unprepared for the firestorm of her need. This was no mere running away of her consciousness to be easily blocked, it was a funnel of insanity, drawing her down to a blackness from which she would never escape. He was caught up, dizzy, and he lost himself in the whirling vastness of her mind.

When he managed to break the meld, they were no longer wearing clothes, and they were. . . intimately entangled. He had vague memories of. . . he supposed it might be called _kissing_ her, but no memory at all of. . . of. . . _this_.

She clutched at him, biting his shoulders and scratching his arms. He shuddered with a dozen unfamiliar sensations, but it dawned on him that this was necessary. She needed him.

It was not unpleasant to be needed.

He pressed his forehead to hers, plunged back into her mind, and let nature take its course.

* * *

_Amanda. . . Amanda. . . beloved. . . my wife, my woman, my own. . . mine. . ._

Sarek was chanting in her mind, unable, now, to speak aloud.

_Mine. . . only mine. . ._

He growled and claimed her mouth by biting her lip.

It had been three days now. . . _About. . ._ and he was entering his harshest, most frantic, darkest phase. The first day, as usual, he had been all sorrow and contrition, an image of pleading penitence. Yesterday there had been only laughter and playful teasing from him, all frolics and fun. Tomorrow, no doubt, he would be artistic, adventurous, arrogant yet inventive. The day after that he would be loving, and gentle, tender beyond measure. But today - today he was morose, cold, sly. . . predatory. His eyes and mind were hard. Cruel.

The first time she had seen his Time, it was only this stage of it that had almost frightened her enough to leave him.

_Who would have thought that such ruthlessness could live inside his dear Vulcan heart?_

He snapped at her, his teeth clicking dangerously close to her earlobe, while his fingernails made a series of red half-moons in her skin.

Today was the day he would be most ashamed of when his logic returned.

His mind roared at her to return her full attention to him as he was _now_, for right now, at this moment, there was no shame, no remorse, no history, no future, only now, only _possession_, in every sense.

_Yes, my wife. . . I possess you. . _. he turned her over and held the length of her back against him. . . _But I am also possessed by you. . ._

For an instant her mind rebelled.

_**Obsessed with**__, more like. . ._

He snarled, clamping her arms to her sides with hot hands like shackles.

_Don't. . . contradict me. . . Professor. . ._

During this stage, she was never sure if he was commanding her to stop resisting, or begging her to resist more.

To be fair, _he_ wasn't sure, either.

One set of his fingers slid to her face.

His blackest, most violent, _evil_ thoughts colored the meld this time, and as he poured his psyche into hers, the sieve she made of her mind only caught a few strands of the full seductive potency of them, but that was enough, and more than enough. . .

_Too much. . ._

His hands gripped her too hard, and his teeth drew blood from her shoulder blade. She screamed into the cushions and blacked out for one horrifyingly beautiful moment.

_Holy hot damn, Sarek, I love you._

He bared his teeth against her neck, hissing menacingly, his thoughts flowing over her like hot wine.

_You had better. . ._

* * *

T'Pring collapsed into his arms, exhausted, falling instantly into a nightmare-ridden sleep that was only half a reprieve for either of them. Still, half freedom was better than the all-consuming, insanely wild, needy melding and. . . other things. . . her fever was constantly demanding from him.

He gently slid her off his body and arranged her carefully on the bed. He lay down beside her, wanting to sleep himself, but truly desiring, in these rare moments when he was almost alone, to _think_.

The past few days had certainly been. . . informative.

He did have a certain amount of confidence now that he had not possessed before - after all, she was still alive, and her _katra_ remained unfractured.

But he could not help sensing that there was something missing.

In her touches there was much _need_ - an increasingly insistent and desperate clamor for rescue - but there was no _want_.

She burned, but she did not burn_ for him_.

As she slept, he felt her mind once more rocketing away, down too deep where she would be lost. Again he pushed his own mind between her and the wall of her _katra_, keeping her from the insanity which lead to death. Once more her soul reached to his in desperation, once more he dove into the burning red dark of her mind, and once more he broke the meld to find both their bodies entwined.

The days went on, and he found himself both dreading and somehow, perversely, _craving_ the moments when he would lose himself in vortex of her, for she always demanded more, more than either of them thought was possible and yet, here she was, still alive, and whole.

The bite marks upon his skin grew in number, the scratches grew longer and deeper, and her need grew more frantic, more fiery, more insatiable.

Then, it happened that once, and once only, his fingers left a bruise. An ugly green-brown stain on her upper arm.

She did not burn for him, and he had marked her.

Only her insistent need at that moment kept him from howling with shame.

* * *

It was always the last day of the fever that Amanda enjoyed the most. Sarek was gentler, kinder, more doting and caring than he was at _any_ other time, and - she laughed as his roughly textured tongue slid soothingly around places he had bitten - that _really_ took some doing.

He was not yet capable of coherent speech, but his mind asked a question.

_Why are you laughing, Beloved?_

Her eyes gleamed and she laughed again.

_Because, my Husband, you are both predictable, and completely, thoroughly, delightfully unexpected._

His face glowed with a warm smile. He tenderly stroked her face with two fingers then drew her into a kiss so sweet she could not help crying from the joy of it. Then she laughed more as he kissed and lapped all the tears away.

_After all this time, you still think me __**unexpected**__?_

"Mmm-hmm," she muttered aloud, and thought, _Of course, my dear Alien Prince. . ._

He growled deep in his chest at her old nickname for him, _That name is illo. . . illog. . ._

She grinned and did not help him finish the word, but reached out and began to massage his ears.

The growl became a moan.

_My sweet, intoxicating wife, I. . . I. . . _His mind stuttered and flared with want as she continued to caress him._ My love, I burn for you._

_I know._

She drew him closer to her, drew his mind into her own, and made him prove it again.

* * *

When the fever broke, they were both asleep, but when T'Pring awoke, she was alone.

A strange, cold lethargy had invaded her limbs. She did not want to move.

Then her stomach growled, and a knot of pain unfurled beneath it. She sat up, clutching at the nearest torn, stained length of cloth she could reach, and held it to the front of herself. Then the hot flow of blood came. It was almost a relief.

The pain released for a moment, and with a whimper and a groan she lay back down, trying to remember. . . trying to fathom where she was. . .

She slowly lifted her arms and legs - there was no mark upon her. . . wait. . . yes, there was a bruise on her arm. Had she fallen? Had she tripped on the path outside Shi'Kahr on her way to. . . way to. . .? Her head spun, her stomach growled again - she would be hungry as soon as the flow of blood ceased.

Where. . .

No, that was not the most important question. . .

Who. . . ?

Then Spock entered the room, and a few things made sense again. He was carrying a tray of food and a pitcher of water. He was caring for her after her Time, as he always did.

He set it down, and leaned towards her, gently covering the bruise on her arm with his hand. He was warm. . . so warm. . .

"I am sorry, my _ko-kugalsu_, for this. I had no right." The sorrow, and. . . shame? were very clear in his voice and eyes, "You may have it healed if you wish - I will not insist you bear my mark."

She looked at him, almost entirely uncomprehending.

He either did not notice, or chose not to.

"Will you contact me if. . . if there is a child. . ."

"There is no child."

He nodded, neither relieved nor disappointed. "I was not sure. . ."

"I am."

The sheets beneath her were already stained with green. If he did not see it, he surely ought to be able to _smell_ it.

"Leave me for one hour, and then I will be able to eat."

He nodded again, turned and left.

She realized that it was the first time this stage had happened here. . . on the bed. . .

Then, finally, the memories came flooding back.

She choked on the hot, overwhelming rush of them, then reveled in the relief of knowledge they brought.

But. . .

They shone with Vulcan clarity, but it was like they were under glass, remote, not belonging to her.

She had needed him.

She had demanded he respond.

He had done all as a husband should.

A _husband_.

But after all that, he had not claimed her.

There was only one mark upon her and he had _apologized_ for it.

She was her own woman still, and the bond was closed, no nearer to becoming the marriage bond than it had been a week ago.

She would have the bruise healed immediately.

While she ate the food he had brought, he offered to wash her before he took her back to her father's house, and considering the strange, cold weakness in her limbs, she deemed it unwise to refuse, but she did not look at him while he did it, and did not thank him afterwards.

_He_ would be the one cleaning the caves tonight, not she. She didn't even own that much of this encounter. Even the _memories_ belonged to him, and she still did not.

She said not a word to him while he flew her home, and did not turn and say goodbye as she went inside.

He flew off, back to the caves, without a reaction.

She had wondered about him, had felt indifferent to him, mildly put off by him, thankful for him, and interested in him, but this was the first time, with all her deep Vulcan soul, she violently hated him.

He was perfect, and he did not want her.

She knew that slamming the door to her room would do little good, but she did it anyway.

* * *

It was tradition for the responding mate to clean the room used for a couple's necessary seclusion.

The first time Amanda had heard of this tradition, she had been indignant at the burdensome sexism, the blatant misogyny, but now, after four experiences, she thought she mostly understood it.

It was, in fact, a respectful gesture more than anything else. It gave the responsive mate (nearly always the woman, of course) a chance to choose which memories she wished to own, and which to disown. If something had happened which she desired to forget, she could destroy the objects which might have reminded her of it, even taking revenge on the room if she felt it necessary. There were places in the _kal'i'farr_ caves that were scarred with high-heat phaser fire, she had seen them. Conversely, if there was something she wished to remember, relics could be preserved. Vulcan women were known to wear small pouches as jewelry - Amanda had often suspected that they held small memorial tokens. A pebble from the cave rooms, perhaps, or a fragment of cloth. Naturally it could not be _said_ what a wife was doing in the room after the necessary time was over, and so, she supposed, a custom had developed to say that the respondent mate was cleaning the place afterwards. And of course, a Vulcan could not _say_ something without it being _true_. After some experience, and a lot of thought, Amanda had decided she approved of a tradition which put a certain amount of control and privacy back into the hands of a person who had, for a few days, given up their right to choose.

As she scrubbed the tub and sink, she thought, perhaps, there were a few scraps of one particular cushion cover that she wanted to keep, this time around. . .

_I can use them with that thing he got me for my last birthday. . . they even match. . ._

She giggled across the bond, _Just you wait, mister. . ._

He was four rooms away, upstairs and deep in his meditations, but managed to send back to her, _You are far too jovial for woman who has just recently been through what you have, k'diwa._

_Can't help it, husband. You make me happy._

_I am gratified. . ._

His mind trailed off as he went back into his deep meditative trance.

This time, as usual, he had offered to take the burden off her and order the servants to clean the space, no matter how distasteful he thought it to share _their_ room with anyone. But after she'd had a stint with a first-aid kit, a dermal regenerator, and taken an hours-long bath, eaten a beautifully large _hot_ meal, all the while listening to the satisfying _quiet_ in her mind, she felt up to the chore, as she normally did, especially since Sarek would be insisting she take a nap soon after. And he would probably massage her feet while she slept. . .

He would, in fact, be making it up to her for _months_. He always did.

She gathered most of the torn pillows and other cloth fragments into a trash compactor bag, and quickly ran a disinfector beam over the rest of them, and the bed, and the walls, slipping the handful of knotted cloth strips she wanted to keep into her pocket.

She smiled, thinking of the jewelry and dresses he'd ask her to pick out on their next Earth-assignment in few weeks. She deliberately did not buy clothes for nearly a year before his Time, knowing he'd be excessively lavish afterward. It would also be a good time to request a few cases of good wines to be stocked at the Embassy on Earth for use at her famous interplanetary dinner-socials.

After his Time, she could ask him for practically _anything_. . .

One time, she had mentioned in passing that she'd like to go horseback riding again one of these days, and the next time they went to Earth, he had _bought a ranch_.

_It's like having a genie in a bottle, but with infinite wishes instead of three._

To be honest, she always looked forward to the spoiling, but to her the best part was that he'd come home early for weeks, just to spend quiet time in her presence. He would even ask her to wake up early and meditate with him before he went to work. While he sat next to her consciousness, his mind would be so comfortable, so beautiful, so ordered yet so interesting that she hardly ever said no, knowing that his intent was to ease any _mental_ bruises she might have sustained from the pummeling melds he had inflicted on her.

She stood up and stretched. She _was_ fearfully sore. . . but that not unusual. She was often sore after their _normal_. . .

He coughed warningly at her though the bond.

_You are not encouraging my meditations with such images_, adun'a.

_I'm not sorry, husband._

_Neither am I. . . _He trailed off again.

Sighing a little, she unfolded the fresh sheets Sarek had sent down, quickly tucked them neatly around the main mattress, rearranged the pile of pillows, and she was done. The little room could wait another seven years.

She inhaled happily, and picked up her cleaning supplies, making to leave.

A quote from somewhere ran through her mind, and Sarek caught it.

_Only you would think of Emerson at a time like this._

She smiled at him, and said it out loud anyway.

"Goodbye, proud world! I'm going home. . ."

* * *

_. . . Thou art not my friend, and I'm not thine._

He had never cleaned the cave so quickly, and never, never with less he wished to remember.

_Long through thy weary crowds I roam;_

But they had still inundated him, a great flood of images, feelings, memories. They had practically driven him out from their stifling presence.

_A river-ark on the ocean brine,_

He cursed his Human heart, his Vulcan soul, his mixed heritage, the rocks around him, anything, anything to keep from _thinking_.

_Long I've been tossed like the driven foam; _

He had deliberately made his flight home longer than necessary, the wind and motion making it possible for him to hold back the rage of tears that threatened to overwhelm him.

_I laugh at the lore and the pride of man,_

And this was what his mother _looked forward to_ every seven years?

_At the sophist schools, and the learned clan._

He counted the minutes, the seconds that had passed since he had felt her, his wife-to-be, _hating_ him.

_To frozen hearts and hasting feet;_

At last, the silhouette of his father's house showed over the horizon.

_To those who go, and those who come;_

_Good-bye, proud world! I'm going home._

* * *

=/\=

* * *

_To'tsu'k'hy_ - Nerve pinch; While invented as a method of swift assassination, in modern times it is used in many Vulcan martial arts as part of non-aggressive moves meant to stun, but inflict no permanent damage to one's opponent.

_Ta'al_ - The Vulcan hand-greeting/salute.

_K'vass_ - A Vulcan beverage reminiscent of hot-buttered rum, but completely non-alcoholic.

_**De-th'ek**_ - Small croquettes made with coarsely ground _pi'fek_ flour, seasoned with spices and salt, often served with savory _shu'vasaya_ flatbread. Reminiscent of Terran falafel and pita bread.

_**Pi'fek**_ - Pod bearing legume, akin to chickpeas

_Vash g'ralth_ - A Vulcan salad made of pickled vegetables; it has several common variations, but is almost always highly spicy.

_Pla-savas_ - Sweet blue to black-colored fruit, tasting like a mixture of sloe and blueberries.

_Sa-mekh_ - Father; male parent

_Kafeh_ - Slave

_Spathel_ - Canyon

_**Gu-vah-baet **_- Name of the canyon within the S'chn T'gai lands that contains the _kal'i'farr_ caves. Literally means "the duties we do".

_**Bat'h'pak**_ - Damn it; Vulcan expletive

_K'diwa_ - Beloved. Contraction of the phrase "K'hat'n'dlawa", meaning "One who is half of my heart, and half of my soul".

"Goodbye" by Ralph Waldo Emerson can be found at - www. poetryfoundation poem/175146


	8. Chapter Seven

_"For far too long it was considered a bad idea to mix species, genders and races on starships, especially on those starships which would be sent on the longer exploratory missions. But contrary to the more belligerent of our historians, it wasn't a xenophobic thing. Mostly it was the thought that putting so many variations in personalities, cultures and genetic makeups in an enclosed space for so long would only make for a huge interplanetary incident. Of course, that turned out to be correct, but that "incident" is called "Starfleet"."_

_- From the Introduction to "Interspecies Ethics and Protocol", by Admiral Christopher Pike_

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

Everything about the High Council Building was intended to be intimidating.

Even Sarek, as he and his aide Maesok walked purposefully to the private meeting rooms, felt the intentional oppression of the overly tall, blocky columns, the steeply beamed ceilings, the unnaturally slick surfaces, and the cold white and grey color scheme, all of which were deeply unnerving to Vulcans, and markedly bleak to most other races as well.

It was like being in an ice cavern - A fairly accurate description of most Vulcan's concept of Hell.

He had long wondered why their most important planetary government building - and indeed all their public services buildings - had been constructed upon principles that would render the space deliberately daunting to anyone who found themselves within it. It was not until he was old enough to inherit his family's Council position that he had begun to understand.

It was logical, naturally, but the logic was as ancient as the building.

His ancestor Stobek, grandson of Surak and founder of Shi'Kahr, had been a great statesman, and an exemplary diplomat. In his time he had seen the rise of technology, and a strengthening of the Vulcan race that even Surak had not fully predicted.

He had also seen the beginning of politics, and had witnessed the rivalries, posturings, arguments and backstabbings that such leaders - even logical ones - could successfully rationalize. This turn of events had appalled him, and, leader that he was, he set out to right it. All places of government were transformed into shrines of sepulchral gravity, where if a man was a judge or complainant, an elected official, hereditary Lord, or clanless farmer, none of them would be allowed to dismiss the austerity of the law, nor would anyone be encouraged to engage in personal aggrandizement or frivolous speech.

Within the walls Stobek had commanded to be built, neither the great nor the common man could sit comfortably - their fates were the same. The building never allowed you to forget it.

Sarek accepted the logic, but he still wondered at the longevity of the idea. Two miliennia was a long time in any culture, and that the grim, grand solemnity of Stobek's day had lasted into the modern era still mystified him.

Perhaps it was that the Vulcan soul had changed so little in that that time. . .

Maesok stepped ahead of him to type their security clearance codes into the entrance to the private areas of the building.

A High Convening had been called; only the seven elected Councilmen, the nineteen hereditary Advisors, and their top aides would be present.

As the Advisor from the Clan S'chn T'gai, of the line of Surak's House, not to mention Head Ambassador, Sarek's presence was not only needed, it was _demanded_.

He did wish, however, that he could have sent Maesok and have done with it. He knew the agenda for the day, and he highly suspected it would be as grueling and uncomfortable as the architecture.

Traditionally, at the end of each quarter, the Council would review the applications to the Science Academy, and choose from among them the ones deemed most likely to benefit from the curriculum. Their opinion was not official by law, but the faculty of the Academy never questioned the suggestions of the Council, nor did anyone the Council had not recommended get accepted.

Spock had applied this season.

Sarek foresaw a long and highly difficult day ahead of him.

He pushed open the massive, gleaming door of the private meeting room, and sat down at one of the high-backed, silver-grey chairs. Everything was so _cold_, a shiver ran through him, chilling him to his bones. Not for the first time, he harbored a desire to have been born to a different position, a different fate. . . but no. That was illogical.

He gestured to Maesok and the aide handed him a PADD with the full agenda and all relevant, necessary documents on it. He pretended to review the data while he got his emotions under firm control.

Not long after, the rest of the High Council had settled around the table, waiting for President Veshon to begin.

While he waited, Sarek contemplated his cousin.

Veshon, due to several intricacies involved in Vulcan heredity, was of the clan S'chn T'gai, but not of the line of Surak. His wife, however, did hold that distinction. Their two daughters were both close to Spock's age, and Veshon, after he had observed the troubles Sarek had regarding the production of a suitable heir, had found it wise to solidify his own standing within the clan. Veshon had been elected to office - not to mention having _run_ for the position - while being much older than Councilors on Vulcan generally were. It was the hereditary Advisors who were meant to be old, well versed in the traditions, wisdom and history of their people. The Councillors were, far more often, younger, more idealistic, and in consequence brought fresh ideas and an energy to the Council that it would not have had otherwise. It was a good system, and well balanced. A Councilman could come from a lower clan, and often came even from the common folk. High Clan members had all Advisory positions - to garner more power for an already powerful entity such as a High Clan, and especially one such as S'chn T'gai, smelt greatly of pride, and even, faintly, of greed. In the eyes of the clan elders, it was very difficult to perceive Veshon's actions as anything other than a palpable bid for public favor.

T'Pau had pressed her lips together very tightly when she had learned of Veshon's candidacy. Such jockeying for recognition, and at Veshon's age, reflected badly not just on him, but on the clan as a whole. It would have been far better for him to endeavor to accept his place within the clan community.

Therefore it was not an exaggeration to say that the entire clan had been thoroughly surprised when, after the requisite twelve years in office, the Council had promoted Veshon to President.

It was a highly unusual situation, and it represented a fundamental shift in public sentiment that even T'Pau had not foreseen.

Veshon was traditional, a trait which Sarek could well appreciate, but he was also uncompromisingly formal, and had not a particle of imagination, but Sarek supposed, it was the fact that he was surely and solidly a part of Vulcan's ancient foundations that made his cousin so popular. The progressiveness of the past two-hundred years or so had resulted in a growing movement of cultural preservationists, even among the younger generations, and Veshon had made it clear that he would adhere strongly to pure Vulcan ways in all his decisions.

It was a somewhat awkward time to be the Scion of Surak. . . if you also happened to be half-Human.

It was even worse if you were one of his parents. . .

Indeed, when Sarek had announced his engagement to Amanda, and then later when he had been obliged to disinherit Sybok, T'Pau had named Veshon's daughters T'Seth and T'Sima as possible replacements as title-bearers. Their claim was incontestible, and the conduct of the girls themselves was impeccable. Sarek had been appreciative both times - in his deepest heart he had never expected his mother to be so open-minded as to even suggest that he remove some of the pressure from himself, and transfer the title of Scion - and he would even have agreed to do so - save that he was firmly convinced that this, and this alone, had been Veshon's ultimate intention. Having worked with his cousin for many years now, Sarek had been privy to many of Veshon's personally held beliefs, and had not been ignorant of the sly gleam that formed in his eyes whenever Sarek's suggestions to the Council were contested or overthrown. It had come to the point that Sarek would rather have gone to a Reldai during his Time, breaking Amanda's heart and getting an unnecessary full-Vulcan Heir, than let Veshon score his smug victory over him and over Spock. The Rules of Heredity were silent on the matter of an Heir's race - necessarily so, as nowhere in the works of Surak was the possibility of relationships between sentient species forbidden - rather the opposite, in fact. Veshon would never fully accept that, of course, but Sarek would see to it that he was obliged to tolerate it.

At last, Veshon broke the ritual silence by filling the tall, oddly shaped vase in front of him full of water, adding one drop of the precious blue mineral dye which officially designated this water as the Peace Bell for the current assembly, and striking the glass with the ancient ivory striker that usually rested near his left hand.

The pure tone brought the circle of men and women instantly to order.

"Our first candidate to consider today," said Veshon, without preamble, "Is K'mai, son of L'mahk, of the Lower Clan G'yth Tel-bah. His strengths include biochemistry and ecology, with a focus in atmospheric anomalies. . ."

Over six hours later, they had finished their discussions of 132 of the 133 candidates.

For the first 129 applicants, it was a fairly easy task. They were all Vulcans, fifty-three from the common folk, forty-eight from the Lower Clans, and twenty-eight from the High Clans. This cultural disparity was somewhat offset given that the majority of them were known to at least one Councillor in the room, either through academic or professional means, occasionally through broad social interactions, and more rarely, through family relation. Deciding the future path of these ones was not difficult for Sarek, nor was it often a contentious matter for anyone else around the table. Vulcan curricula vitae were quite succinct, and a small summary was usually enough to allow the assembly to decide. Approximately seventy-five percent of each cultural group were granted admission. On the rare occasions when there was any kind of debate, Veshon would listen closely for a few minutes, then would strike the Peace Bell and let silence reign for a long moment before calling for a vote. Such an action was necessary to keep the discussions from lasting hours; Logical though these debates were, opinions, like every other emotion, ran deep among them, and such ones like the applicant from a far-flung province who had nonetheless shown a high aptitude for urban city planning, _could_ have been discussed by the Council for days, let alone the three minutes Veshon allowed to each side to make their point.

Sarek, while he had decided not to take part in that debate, had given a yes to the applicant. He was unsure if the girl could adapt to life in Shi'Kahr adequately enough to find her first semester at the Academy profitable, but he was confident that, given time, she would. Besides the fact that she was clearly brilliant, she was of the common folk, her family not at all involved with Clan politics, nor, indeed, with anything other than their successful mining business.

The final three of the first 132 applicants were _not_ Vulcan, and Veshon allowed five minutes for each side to debate the acceptance or denial of these ones.

The first was a Human female, and refusal of her application was easy enough, as her academic standards were less than optimal, but still Sarek had argued in her favor, considering that she was an older student applying for training in color chemistry to aid her in her already well-established cloth-dying factory. He was, however, a clear minority.

The second was a Malurian male applying for a degree in warp drive engineering. There was hardly any debating the refusal of this application, as Malurian learning styles did not work well in a Vulcan teaching environment.

The third non-Vulcan applicant was the only one to spark any real discussion. He was a Human male, just recently graduated from a most prestigious Terran university with a degree in xenophysiology, and was now applying for the pre-medical course the VSA offered. This was his second application, his first having been accidentally rejected for technical reasons. This current application had been properly filed, thankfully, and everyone admitted that his scholastic standards were excellent.

However, he was Human.

Nearly all of the twenty-six Council members had something to say regarding his application, eight of them even spending their whole allotted five minutes when their turn came to speak. Sarek himself had argued for the man's admission, putting forward that if a Human well versed in Vulcan biology was also a doctor, then they would not harm either species, and that if any. . . _secret_. . . aspects of Vulcan's cyclic hormonal states did happen to be revealed to such a doctor, then professional standards of doctor/patient confidentiality would not only be _expected_, but also could be _enforced_.

Veshon had been obliged to use the Peace Bell far more often during this debate than at any other time during the day.

When the time came for voting, Sarek had, at the last, voted no, not for any scholastic or moral reasons, but because he had read _all_ of the young man's records - even the seemingly irrelevant ones - and it appeared he had twice been reprimanded for not only participating in, but also _hosting_ an unauthorized social gathering in the school's dormitories. Sarek knew that these "parties" were normal for Humans, and participation therein did not constitute mental instability, but for a person who found such things desirable to be placed in an institute where they were not only forbidden but had no chance of being understood? No. It would be blatant cruelty to do that. The young man would have to receive his medical training somewhere else, but Sarek did receive permission to write an addendum to the refusal notification, wherein he suggested that an internship, after the majority of his academic requirements had been met elsewhere, would be appropriate.

In any case, Sarek highly doubted that the Vulcan Science Academy had heard the last of Jabilo 'Geoffry' M'Benga.

After this, Veshon ordered a short recess, calling for water and food to be served to all councilors and their aides.

Sarek wanted to know why his son had been left until last, but he refrained from asking.

He felt that soon he would know - in any case.

When Veshon called the meeting back to order - with a soft striking of the Peace Bell - Sarek thought he detected a trace of reluctance in the man's voice, a strange half-hesitance, so like his own gut-deep dislike of the very thought of what he was sure was to be a dramatic scene, that for one brief and disorienting second, he actually felt in tune with his cousin.

"We have but one more application today, as I am sure you all know," said Veshon, unnecessarily and uncharacteristically garrulous, "So. Shall we begin?" Sarek felt his cousin's eyes upon him, but refused to look at him.

"Our final applicant for today is S'chn T'gai Spokh," Sarek bristled as Veshon gave his son his proper name, "Applying for a degree in starship command. His strengths include a degree in interstellar physics, with a focus in starship interactions, and a double major in xenochemistry, with a focus in plant biology. His minor in subspace communications must also be mentioned, as well as his extra-curricular work in warp drive engineering and xenolinguistics." Veshon paused, "Quite impressive, considering."

Sarek raised an eyebrow, "Considering. . . what, precisely?"

"Considering," said Veshon, flatly, "His record of emotional outbursts."

Sarek held his emotionless expression, but he was surprised. He had expected Veshon to cite Spock's part-Human genetics as reason enough for dismissal. But Veshon was approaching from a different direction, an unexpected angle.

He must proceed cautiously.

"To which incidents are you referring, President?"

The barest trace of an indulgent smile crossed Veshon's face, "Why, the incident when the applicant attacked and nearly killed a schoolmate and then refused to give an accounting as to why." He tapped the PADD in front of him, "Such a blot would normally be enough to dismiss any such application, but given the applicant's name and position. . ."

"Were it anyone but my son," Sarek interrupted, "You would say the cause was sufficient."

An uncomfortable tremor swept briefly around the table.

"Are you denying the import of the incident?"

"I am questioning its relevance."

"Are you indeed?" Both of Veshon's eyebrows were raised to their full extent. "Well then, would you be kind enough to explain what cause there could be for such actions on the part of the Scion of Surak?"

Sarek was aware that he was not the only one who could hear the biting sarcasm in Veshon's voice.

"It is my belief that the boy my son attacked had, in actuality, issued the _toria'tal _challenge."

All the councilors looked around the table, and murmured briefly to each other.

Spock had explained to him that day - the other boy had deliberately insulted Spock, his mother, and his father. Such words were illogical, deliberately inflammatory, and specifically directed to illicit an emotional response. As such, they were nothing more nor less than a form of the Death Challenge. Actions taken under an acceptance of the _toria'tal_ were legal, if not entirely logical. Veshon, more than anyone, knew that under Vulcan law, if Spock had been responding to a Challenge, then his actions were not only allowed, but fully traditional, and acceptable.

"That is a grave statement," said Veshon, seriously, "What proof have we of it?"

"The proof of my son's word," said Sarek, energetically holding back an instinctual need to be offended, "And the fact that he told no one save myself the full truth of the incident."

"You find a lie of omission to be commendable?"

"I find acts of concealment to be necessary, on occasion." Underneath the table, Sarek pressed two fingertips together, "To have revealed the fact of the Challenge would have demanded someone's blood. I felt that enough blood had been spilled."

The councilors around the table nodded in agreement with the logic.

"Do you find the applicant's _acceptance_ of the challenge to be commendable, then?"

"No," Sarek was not prepared for this particular discussion, but he did know his own mind on the matter, "However, we are not discussing the outcome, but rather the cause. Was it sufficient?"

Veshon nodded briefly, and in the midst of his relief, Sarek remembered the year following this incident, when Spock had thrown so much effort into his schooling that he had advanced a class - effectively taking himself out of the vicinity of those who found the issuing of a Death Challenge to be a light matter. Rather than confront them again, Spock had preferred to refuse the challenge without seeming to do so.

Sarek also remembered his pride in his son when he had realized that this was what he had done.

"I feel it necessary to mention," he said into the silence, "That during the past three and a half years he has worked most diligently for the Vulcan Scientific Exploration Fleet, and has written one hundred and fifty nine published articles for them, ranging in subject from shipboard hydroponics to subspace communication anomalies, to matter/antimatter containment fields, and all of which, as I am sure you are aware, are about to be collectively published as an introductory preparation manual for those wishing to join our Fleet."

Most of the councilors around the table nodded in acceptance.

"And what," said Veshon, apparently deciding that the direct attack was the most effective after all, "Are we to make of this applicant's Human heritage?"

Sarek bristled, then relaxed, "I fail to see what bearing the species of the applicant's mother has on this discussion."

"It has been suggested that the teaching methods employed at our Academy are ineffective for most other races, and thus it would be illogical to accept applicants who would fail to benefit from the curriculum."

Sarek almost laughed, "To my knowledge, fifteen other sentient species have adopted Vulcan teaching methods with great success, and at least twenty more developed similar methods at the same time we did, to even greater success."

"But Humans are not one of them?" asked Veshon, knowing the answer.

"No."

His cousin became ever so slightly petulant, "Then what is your recommendation?"

"I recommend that the Council consider the fact that the Humans have not adopted our teaching practices for a number of reasons, their successful reliance on intuition being a factor, and I would state that such a broadly useful and indomitable type of intelligence is unlikely to need approval to continue succeeding."

Veshon's mouth twitched, "So you support the opinion that the applicant should be denied?"

"Not at all," Sarek suddenly found himself enjoying the debate, "I merely state that, in this instance, the opinion of this Council may be completely irrelevant."

"Were you aware that the applicant has also applied to Starfleet?"

Sarek blinked, "I was not."

"He was accepted there, of course," his cousin's tone made it clear that he believed _anyone_ could easily obtain an acceptance to Starfleet Academy, "All that remains is to decide if the application here, to this institution, has logical merit."

"I am confused, I thought that we were discussing his scholastic merit."

Starfleet? Why would Spock apply to Starfleet?

"We must all accept the consequences of logical decisions," said Veshon, pompously, "This has little to do with academics."

"And yet we are discussing his personal attributes, not the logic of his decisions."

"May I remind you, Ambassador, that you are not here as the father of the applicant, but in your capacity as an Advisor to the Council?"

Sarek almost sighed, "And may I remind you, Councillor Veshon, that assuming superiority or inferiority based solely on the factor of genetics is not only scientifically unsound, but also illogical?"

Vice-president T'Mar struck the Peace Bell. She had not spoken at all for the last seven hours, as was her wont at meetings, but now she stepped in where the President was clearly unable to act.

"I would like to remind everyone - "Nobility lies in action, not in name."

She quoted Surak to them as though they had _all_ forgotten. Veshon had the grace to look chagrined for a moment.

"Shall we vote?" he said, quietly.

The twenty-six men and women all lowered their heads and tapped their votes into the PADD's they had before them.

The vote came back - two against, twenty-four in favor.

"Very well," said Veshon, resolutely schooling his voice and expression to utter blankness, "Call him for an audience this afternoon."

T'Mar quickly dismissed the assembly to cover everyone's surprise at Veshon's last statement. It went against all protocol and made no logical sense.

Sarek sent the summons to his son with a hand that very nearly trembled with what he could only describe are extreme apprehension.

* * *

As they entered the High Council chamber, Veshon pulled him aside.

"It will not be necessary for you to speak during this confrontation, cousin." Veshon managed to imply censure without placing emotion in his words.

Sarek raised an eyebrow. "I am still an Advisor to the Council, Veshon - I will speak when and if it is necessary."

"And I have told you: it will not be necessary."

Sarek let a very small smirk twist his lips, "You have not paid attention when you have met my son, have you, Councillor?"

Veshon gave him a warning look, but said no more.

As soon as all the Council were in their places, the doors opened, and Spock entered, with the same slow grace that Sarek had tried to learn from T'Pau, but could never quite manage.

Veshon waited until Spock stood still before them, looking up at the Council like he was their equal.

"You have surpassed the expectations of your instructors," said Veshon, simply, "Your final record is flawless, with one exception: I see that you have applied to Starfleet as well."

Spock looked surprised that the Councilor was even mentioning it.

"It was logical to cultivate multiple options."

Veshon half-smirked, "Logical, but unnecessary. You are hereby accepted to the Vulcan Science Academy. It is truly remarkable, Spock, that you have achieved so much despite your disadvantage. All rise."

Sarek stood with the rest of the Council, even though he was somewhat stunned at his cousin's words - what was the fool _doing_?

"If you would clarify, Councilor, to what disadvantage are you referring?"

Spock at least sounded calm.

Veshon's answer did not.

"Your human mother."

For a long moment, Sarek could not credit his ears. What Veshon had just said. . . it was not only rude, it issued the _toria'tal_ challenge! According to Vulcan law, Spock now had the right to demand the Councilman fight him, until blood was spilled if he wished. . . if they had not been blood relatives, Spock could quite lawfully _kill_ him - and a case could still be made if he happened to wish him dead. Veshon was. . . was. . . _testing_ Spock, but was doing so with his very _life_.

But the look now in his son's eyes was not murderous - it was, however, intensely disappointed - not with what had been said, but with the Council itself.

Sarek found that he shared the feeling.

Spock made up his mind very quickly, "Council. . . Advisors, I must decline."

Sarek was once again proud of his son. He was refusing to take Veshon's Challenge, and would most likely remove himself from the area for a while. . .

Veshon had not expected this. . . or had he? "No Vulcan has ever declined admission to the Academy!" His voice sounded only artificially surprised.

Spock nearly smirked. "Then, as I am half-Human, your record remains untarnished."

It was something Amanda would say. Sarek could not remember ever being prouder of his son, but he also must be reminded in what company he was speaking. It could be dangerous for Spock to say anything else in such a Human manner.

"Spock," he said, calmly, "You have made a commitment to honor the Vulcan way."

Veshon could not fault him for such an aside. . . but his cousin, having issued a challenge, was apparently determined to either goad Spock into fighting, or drive him away from Vulcan entirely. . .

"Why did you come before this council today?" his kinsman asked, with a shameful amount of emotion in his voice, which Sarek hoped the rest of the Council noticed, "Was it to satisfy your emotional need to rebel?"

Spock had certainly noticed - his next words were said with a very carefully hidden sarcasm that Veshon could not fail to identify, "The only emotion _I _wish to convey is gratitude. Thank you, Councilors, for your consideration."

Sarek met his son's raking glance, and for a moment father and son were in perfect harmony.

"_Live long_ and _prosper_."

His italics were _devastating_.

For once, Sarek was immensely grateful that Spock had not chosen to pursue a career in the Diplomatic Corps. His son was able to say, and _had_ said, in those four words, all he himself could have possibly wished to say, and _do_, to their kinsman for insinuating such stupid, vile, illogical. . . _insults_.

_There is no offense where none is intended._

He believed that phrase, at this moment, constituted what Amanda would call "Vulcan Bullshit". Veshon had meant to offend.

And he had succeeded.

* * *

When the Council adjourned for the day, Sarek approached Veshon in his private office. The highly ostentatious decor of the place did not escape Sarek's notice. Yes, Veshon coveted a position far above his proper station.

"Kinsman, I have a favor to ask," Sarek said, almost kindly.

The Councilor raised his eyebrows a fraction, "Please do, cousin."

"T'Pau and my wife are giving a banquet soon, and I desire your presence among the guests."

"I would be honored. . ."

"Indeed," Sarek's voice became as hard as it had ever been, "Just as I am sure you would be honored, while in attendance, to _attempt_ to recompense them both for the loss of the Heir of our House. I am sure you will fail, but an attempt would be appreciated."

The other man blinked, "There are others who can take up the title. . ."

"And that will never be your choice to make, Veshon." Sarek's voice was entirely inflectionless, and thoroughly dangerous, "Thank all the gods that are or ever were that you will never make that choice. . ." He raised his hands in an ancient fighting posture, "The blood between us prevents _me_ from issuing the proper challenge, but know this, Veshon; Were you any other man, and had spoken thus to me and mine, your head would already be hanging from my fist." He thawed out the merest trifle as he saw the other man cringe, "It will be necessary to bring a _large_ gift for my wife, and show yourself humble before her. . ." He let his his eyes flick disgustedly over Veshon from head to foot, "If that is possible. As she is _Human_. . ." he lingered pointedly over the word, "I am sure she will forgive you. . . Eventually."

He let a small smirk curl his lips, "I am uncertain that T'Pau will be as easily palliated. Her wrath may cost you your seat on the Council."

Sarek enjoyed the other man's involuntary start far more than he should have.

He turned his back on his kinsman, "Next time you make an emotional decision, it would be well to remember that such things have consequences."

Sarek stalked out of the room, not satisfied, but calmed for the moment.

Starfleet. . .

There were worse places. . .

* * *

=/\=

* * *

_Toria'tal_ - The challenge to the death, or death challenge. Still legal when issued between non-blood-related Vulcans, but it is considered a highly illogical method of settling differences.

* * *

=/\=

* * *

**A/N** - There may not be an update for a few weeks - I am going on vacation. I will try to update, but I may not be able to, or (gasp) WANT to. ;) For those of you who asked - we've got at least three more chapters to go before Uhura shows up, and a few more after that before any kind of Spock/Uhura goodness, so, if you can't wait, I've written a drabble series especially for you S/U fiends! ;) It's called "**Seven Is The Number Of Perfection**". Find it either on my profile, or search for Story ID - 9644990

Enjoy, and I'll see all y'all soon!


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